


John's Unsavoury Companion of Dubious Morals

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Backstory, Begins in Christmas setting but progresses to far beyond that, Christmas Eve, Drunk John, Eventual Johnlock, First Time, Fix-It of Sorts, Friends to Lovers, I think we moved past the implied/referenced drug use, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Infidelity, Intranasal Naloxone, John Watson Whump, John and Sherlock are both Liars, Lies, M/M, Medical Procedures, Missing Scene, Mycroft Being Mycroft, On the East Wind, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Parentlock, Post-Episode: The Abominable Bride, Post-Reichenbach, Pre-Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Reichenbach Feels, Series Compliant, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock Is A Fraud, TAB compliant, The Stage is Set - the Curtain Rises
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-20
Updated: 2016-03-28
Packaged: 2018-05-13 06:30:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 58,176
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5698438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I swear to God," John's voice was low, fierce, threatening, "if you think to leave this flat before I have been given a sufficient explanation for this madness, I will drag your sorry arse back to the top of Barts and <i>throw you off for real this time."</i></p><p>++</p><p>John Watson has been set up, played, manipulated, and given a bottle of whiskey.  Freed of his inhibitions, his imagination leads his lonely mind directly into the path, and into the arms, of Sherlock Holmes.  John does not take kindly to the deception - any of it - until Sherlock draws him in to the very center of it and makes him a co-conspirator.  The story picks up after Reichenbach Falls, and runs along the premise that John and Sherlock were in cahoots during much of Season 3 and beyond.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'll be Home for Christmas

**Author's Note:**

> Heed the tags! Sorry if I missed a few the first go-round!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After watching his flatmate plummet off the roof of Barts, John's life has changed dramatically. There have been events set in motion that are poised to change it again.

There was the whiskey bottle on his front step, but that was not the first thing that had triggered his memory that day. 

Catered Angelo's delivered to the office, sent from an appreciative patient, saying thank you and wishing the surgery an early Happy Christmas.  There had been a candle in the box along with several candy canes that his mind had connected to his flatmate.  His former flatmate.  His _dead_ , former flatmate.  The candy canes, while seasonally festive, were just another trigger for John as they poked his sad and irritated mind into the recalling of the cane he'd abandoned there at Angelo's.  When one of the candy canes 'accidentally' snapped in his hand, he felt the urging to locate his own black model and bosh it into pieces over the black headstone in the cemetery.   _One more miracle, don't be dead_.  Yeah, right.  Bugger that.

The day had even begun with a more subtle reminder.  Violin music had been playing in the surgery when he'd arrived that morning.  As usual, he'd been unable to sleep, and headed into the clinic.  It was certainly preferable than moping around the flat on Baker Street, where ghosts seemed to torment him.  At least at the office he had distractions like paperwork, inventory, or simply being anywhere that didn't scream Sherlock into his brain.  Someone had left the radio on again, apparently.  Bloody buggering orchestral strings.  He flipped to another radio station, and in short order he was annoyed at the selection of sleep-inducing, mind-numbing, pedantic seasonal harmonies.

There had been a tall man wearing a long coat on the tube.  More reminiscent of a Jack Harkness military style than what Sherlock used to wear, but triggering nonetheless.  By the time John had taken note of it, he turned back to see if the bloody collar had been turned up but by then, the man had dissipated into the masses.

A remnant of an IBISH sign remnant was still hanging on a utility pole down the street from the surgery.

Even the flat was out to get him, with the tea mug taunting him, the skull grinning, it's angle different, the wallpaper screaming -- he stopped his brain before his head imploded.  Get a bloody  _grip, Watson_.  

But it was the bottle of Jameson which he'd found outside the flat door that nudged John over the deep end.  It was the same whiskey that they'd shared on those special occasions, mostly hand-me-downed bottles that Mycroft had given them.  Regifted, certainly, but John had overturned Sherlock's complaints about that, because, well, good scotch, especially _free_ good scotch, was worth the confrontation and resultant sulking.  This one was from the same year as the one from Sherlock's birthday celebration the year before... the roof.  John remembered it was his first taste of that particular vintage, and he'd raved over it a few times, complaining that the bottle was emptying too fast even as his blood alcohol level climbed.

Now home on Baker Street, after his mind had resolutely carried him unwillingly down memory lane, he carried the bottle inside.  The flat was quiet, too quiet, and he even could somehow detect the scent of Sherlock nearby.  He tossed down a quick drink, poured another two fingers, okay, just a few more after that, and multiple glasses, and then reveled for a few in the burning from gut throughout the rest of his body, the deadening of the sadness, the I-don't-bloody-care-anymore.  He was well on his way to rip-roaring drunk when, through half-masted eyes, he saw the front door open, and Sherlock enter.

"'Bout bloody time, you...   you...   "  He looked for the biggest insult he could find, but realised he was obviously hallucinating, and settled on "... _prat_."  When that wasn't enough, he hissed, " _Wanker_."  The hallucination didn't respond, just stood, staring, and John rather pleasantly imagined standing up, starting a row.  He hadn't had a bloody fantastic bout of fisticuffs since before his deployment (okay, well, there was that one time on leave in a bar over a bloke coming on too strong to one of the barmaids), but, God, the adrenaline junkie in him was just itching to have a go.  " _Sod off."_

Tipsy, pissed, plastered, arseholed, loaded, three sheeted, bladdered, falling down - he wondered how many others phrases for intoxicated he could come up with, and, giggling to himself, he reached for the bottle again.  If he was going to hallucinate his dead flatmate, he might as well let all of his inhibitions fall away.  And that damn kissable pouty mouth was now bloody smirking at him.  He thought randomly about punching, kissing, and throwing the man out on his ear, and perhaps if his drunken self could get away with it, _all three_ in very short succession.  It was his own damned illusion so he should be able to do whatever the hell he wanted, right?

"Don't have any more John, please, not yet.  I only have tonight.  Please don't - and for God's sake, certainly do not vomit.  I need you too drunk to really remember this, so keep your liquor on the inside please."  He was next to John without preamble, and arms tightened, holding him up.  "I at least need you doubting your recall of tonight.  You understand?"

"God yes.  Of course this would never be real.  Because _you're. Bloody. Dead!_ "  He punctuated the words with a poking finger on Sherlock's sternum.  And then John wrapped arms around the tall somehow real-feeling hallucination and pulled lips together for a slightly sloppy and definitely whiskey-strong snog.   All thoughts of punching went out the window, as this, despite how often he'd tried to imagine it, was absolutely fantastic.  The body in his arms was surprisingly solid for an obvious apparition.  It was glorious, heavenly, male.  And warm lips, strong, emphatic, _passionate_ , kissing him back, with considerable emotion.  Some portion of his brain was aware that this apparition was responsible for the gut-wrenching pain of the past months, shoved him forcefully, _angrily_ away.  "I hate you."  Eyes blinked back at him with some confusion.   _Good_.  "I hate what you did to me."

"John, I told you, remember, I told you it was all a magic trick?"

"Well," he said as he recalled the blur of events that followed that damned billowing coat in the sky - from the morgue to the steady stream of grieving friends to then the absolute _absence_ of said grieving friends.  "You should have told me.  I could have helped."

"Soon.  Will you help me, John?"

"Of course," drunk John said, and inhaled deeply into the collarbone and curls of his delusion, whose scent was inherently, somehow, Sherlock.  "God, you smell so good.  You always did."

The ghost in his arms turned, pulled him closer, then awkwardly shrugged out of the coat - good lord, was this the actual coat he'd seen on the tube earlier today?  Of course it was, thanks to his suggestible mind.  Lips joined again, roiling and tasting and sucking hard.  John's head went back of its own accord, and he pulled Sherlock tight against him there on the couch.

"Have a drink with me?"

Vision-Sherlock shook his head sadly, slid an arm behind John, and moved to lay them both down, full bodies pressing together.  John wasted no time pressing his pelvis against Sherlock's, then Sherlock growled low in his chest.  "God, I want that.  I want.  Are you sure, because I have wanted..."

"I want, you want, he-she-it wants."  John nearly giggled to himself as he conjugated while Sherlock's imaginary fingers roved his chest seeking then pressing firmly on his nipples.  "We want, you want, they want."  He reached up as the fingers of his mind-altered vision pinched hard on his left nipple, eliciting a harsh gasp.  "Ow!!  Stop that."

"Shut up, John."

"I have every right to be furious with you."

"I know.  But you've missed me, too."  There was an intense moment of visual connection, eyes conveying caring and feeling and sentiment.  Sherlock's expression wrapped emotional cords around John's chest, tugged him close even as it warred intimately with his furor.

"I do, you ... _tosser_."  Angling his torso slightly away, John reached down an inquisitive strong hand toward Sherlock's zipper, and was pleased that the hardness he encountered there was already throbbing, as was his own.  His fingers drew to a belt buckle, but dexterity failed him, so he slid his hand down inside from the top of his waistband as Sherlock sucked in his already slim belly.  As close-fitting as Sherlock wore his trousers, there was no room for the addition of John's hand.  "Take me to bed, you virtual miracle.  Let's shee...  letshh...  Unggghhn,  _please_!"

Still seated, John found himself held sharply with a hand in his hair so that he was eye to eye, uncomfortably close, as Sherlock tugged to get his full and undivided attention.  "Are you sure you want this?"

 _"God yes_."

"No regrets," Sherlock stated again, as he held their positions.   _"Say it."_

"No."  It was delightfully refreshing to actually deny Sherlock, even in his fantasy.  He said it again, defiant, with something akin to glee.  "No."

"John."

"Fine, no regrets."  He exhaled in frustration and hoped Sherlock enjoyed the harsh whiskey smell on his breath.

There was an audible sigh as Sherlock released the hand in his hair, and John reached out strong fingers to grasp Sherlock's collar, twisting, drawing them together again.  Lips came together, firm, dry at first, then open, seeking, moist, tongues inquisitive.  Someone pulled away to catch their breath, chests heaving even as hands demanded more, more, _more_.

John would be hard pressed to recall anything about their moving from the sitting room down the hallway to Sherlock's unused bedroom.  A layer of dust had accumulated since he'd forbidden Mrs. Hudson from entering that inner sanctum, that place John seldom visited but liked to know that he alone had sole access.  The bed linens were cold against his skin, but the two men were not.  The room spun slightly as John lay on his back, inebriated vertigo, and he closed his eyes, and waited for the dream to vanish.  Instead, warm hands undressed him, and as he shivered on the sheets under the weight of the duvet until he was joined by an equally naked, lithe body next to him.  Two penises found each other, and a hand - John's, Sherlock's, both perhaps? - wrapped around them, slick already with lubricant.  Ah, his mind had even supplied the click of a plastic bottle of lube, his _clever mind_ , he congratulated himself on his thorough and realistic imagination.  Sherlock's chest pressed him firmly into the mattress as they rocked together, and John found that the spinning room-induced dizziness lessened when he kept his eyes open.  The visual perspective - trim muscled shoulder, dark curls, an ear - made for an interesting point of view as the warmth of the bodies in motion together under the bedclothes, grew.  He heard a rumbling, guttural moan from Sherlock, then felt liquid warmth pulsating already across his hand and belly (well, _that_ mystery was solved, then, as to whether John's hand was involved in the penile friction activities, _it was_ ).  The body above him trembled, softly groaning, and the face came closer to press tender kisses against his temple.  John pressed his heels into the bed, arching his back up against the form above him as his own orgasm built from between his legs, across his gut, spilling hotly against skin and fabric.  His imagination, John pondered briefly, had just somehow supplied tactile sensations of _two_ orgasms.  He was bloody brilliant, he congratulated himself, to the point that even Sherlock would have been impressed.  A dim part of John's machismo registered that Sherlock had come to orgasm first; John's stamina had prevailed even in his delusion.   _Take that, you arrogant sod!_

The warmth of the body heat under the covers led John to that comfortable place, relaxed, carefree, and he shut his eyes again.  The dizziness came back a bit, but he grabbed hold of a long lean arm, holding tightly as he drifted.  He clung to the firmly muscled limb In his grasp, an anchor, a lode-bearing wall, a foundational element.  Eventually, John told his inebriated self, this limb would be a vanishing point, if he remembered it at all.  He clasped it tighter, acknowledging the vague lump in his throat, wishing it - _this_ \- could have been even remotely real.  There was vague recollection of being turned over, a warm front pressed against his warm back, of being wiped off with a piece of clothing, covers tucked under their chins.  Behind his ear and against the back of his neck, there was steady breathing, warm air exhaled against his skin.  A warm hand crept around his front, settling with splayed fingers across his chest, sliding their bodies close.  And he remembered feeling the very unfamiliar prodding of an erection behind his thighs some minutes - hours? - later.  While he might have been intrigued under more sober circumstances for full-on, penetrative sex, his physician mind pulled out the unprotected sex concern, and before he could argue with said mind on the fact that dream-state unprotected sex was most definitely 100% safe, he turned in the embrace.  Pushing Sherlock back into the pillow, he then briefly considered how high his alcohol level likely was, still.  Pretty damn high, he thought, considering he was looking to give a blow job to the figment of the man under his hands, something he hadn't done since that one time - which, come to think about it now, also involved large quantities of alcohol - before shipping out with the army.  His drunken mind was still creative enough, he realised, to supply sharp, gasping profanity as his head bobbed and his hand clamped around the base of another man, his mouth tight and wet.  And shortly, _full_.

And when he woke up in the morning, he was alone.  In the holy, off-limits shrine of Sherlock's room, his _bed_.  The scent of Sherlock was all around him, the pillows, the sheets, and it made little sense to John's slow-firing mind.  He recalled a rather explicit dream, must have drank too much in his misery.  God, the hangover was going to be bloody magnificent, of the _summa cum laude_ variety once sensation returned fully.   Stumbling to the loo, he brushed his teeth, and if the biofilm in his mouth was quite different than usual, he assured himself that it was, _obviously_ , the whiskey and not other activities he'd dreamed about.  Two paracetamol later, he wandered out to the living room as the headache settled in across his frontal lobe.  His mobile was plugged in, and the home screen had been reset to a photo of the doorway of the flat on Baker Street.  Didn't recall doing either of those things, odd.  His email had been sorted, some of the pieces he hadn't read marked as read now.  At least he didn't think he had.  But the discovery in the kitchen had him questioning his very sanity and realising he clearly could not be trusted.  The bottle of Jameson was much too empty to let any memories be believable, credible, or reliable.  A dream then and some inattention to his computer.  His ring tone had been reset to the tune of I'll be Home for Christmas.  Obviously some sappy sentimental idiot co-worker had done that when he wasn't looking.

He spent the day hydrating, nursing his headache, dozing, and vaguely disturbed by the intensity of his dream about his former flatmate.  His mobile sounded, an incoming text later that afternoon, from an unknown number.  It was a link to an acapella version of "I'll be Home for Christmas".  He opened the link, and let the song play.  It was haunting and oddly nostalgic.  Wrong number, obviously, but sweet to listen to, and didn't aggravate the pain in his head.

The mobile in his hand buzzed again, the text visible briefly at the top of the screen, from the same unknown number.   **Just a magic trick**.

He stared, heart pounding, wondering exactly when his mental health had deteriorated so much that some harmless triggers from the day before sent him into such vivid memories.  There were, however, plenty of intense memories with which to haunt himself.  John recalled those awful moments where Sherlock was on the roof, where he touched the pulseless body, where he visited the grave marker, where Molly couldn't even stand to be near him, where Mycroft ignored his few attempts to connect.  He recalled good and pleasant associations, too:   words, where Sherlock called him friend.  Where he'd called Sherlock brilliant.  Other words came to mind, too.  Not gay, he'd said.  Not his date, he'd said.  Hmmm.

The dream was just a dream, but he wondered at all the things that had happened yesterday, from the music to the food to the tube, the whiskey, the coat, and his flat, right up until he opened the bottle of Jameson.   He tried to recall much of what had happened after that.  He remembered the crazy manipulative skill of his former flatmate.  The cleverness.  No wonder he'd had such a vivid dream/hallucination, with all the Sherlock stimuli from the previous day.  The hammers in his head were replaced rather quickly with a vice between his temples, and he exhaled, tried to cease thinking, turn off his mind.  It took some conscious effort, but he felt his shoulders relax.

He awoke the following morning feeling slightly better, with new resolve.  Christmas was only a short time away, and he took captive each thought that tried to derail his life.  Opting to be a bit more proactive in finding distractions, he took charge of his mobile, made a few calls.  He joined a few work friends for drinks one evening, called Lestrade to meet for dinner later, and refused to allow his mind to wander.  In an attempt to avoid and prevent dreaming, he made sure he was exhausted before going to bed, and set an alarm earlier than he typically would.  He didn't want to take any chances with his subconscious mental proclivities.

Invites for Christmas were abundant:  from Greg and his wife ( _on_ again, apparently) for some folks from the Met, from two different office staff members, an invite for Christmas Eve brunch from Mrs. Hudson, one from an army buddy.  A Christmas dinner invite from Harry.  An open-house invite even from Mycroft, pre-printed, impersonal - that one went in the bin immediately.  A text message came too, late one evening as he was readying for bed, simply a photo of a warm, cozy home, captioned, " _I'll be Home for Christmas_."  It was from that same unknown number.  He considered, briefly, that he should probably go to all of the gatherings, be with people, even as he stared at the text, wheels turning, trying not to panic.

Instead of accepting, he turned down every invitation for Christmas Eve and Christmas Day, offering each a lame and untraceable excuse.

He stopped at Mrs Hudson's mid-day on the twenty-fourth with her gift (basket of assorted teas and a few gourmet biscuits he knew she liked, and that he was certain she would share with him) and watched her shortly after that take a cab to her sister's home.  He questioned his motives even as he assured himself that he was entitled to a solitary evening at home if he so desired.  The flat was quiet, and he popped on a Christmas movie until the absurdity inside both his head and the flat drove him into his jacket and out into the night.  A brief walk, he told himself, would certainly clear his head and do him a world of good.  Truth be told, but only within the confines of John Watson's mind, the brief departure from the flat was a gamble, a testing of the waters.  In poker play terms, it was clearly, _I call_.  John's game was definitely _on_.  If the various messages had been benign, it would certainly be just a mind-clearing walk.  And if there'd been intent behind the messages, well, John was determined to find out.   _Home For Christmas?  We'll just see about that_.

The doorway looked the same as when he'd left, no notes, no visitors.  The flat remained empty.  He told himself, then reminded himself, that he was not disappointed.  Resurrection was impossible, and he was foolish to entertain thoughts beyond the bounds of feasibility.  He stared out the window at the city of London, vibrant and alive.  Someone had been messing with his head, or it could have been simply a mistake, or it was a cruel joke.  

But the romantic side of him still apparently was not entirely convinced.  And as midnight approached, the special Christmas programming over, he reclined on the couch, watching sappy telly and trying not to startle at every sound he heard.  The bottle of whiskey, the remnants anyway, untouched since the night of the dream, were on the coffee table, an empty tumbler nearby, but John had drank none tonight.  He thought he was after the illusion of mild inebriation, perhaps, in case that mattered the last time - and now he was sure none of it had been real.  He told himself that he could never share this with anyone, that he was most assuredly losing his mind, slipping after a traumatic event, and that tomorrow, he was going to start looking for other living arrangements to prevent further mental deterioration.  There were too many ghosts and memories there on Baker Street, and he'd had _enough_.  Tomorrow he would delete text messages and restore settings on phone and laptop.  He would call Harry, see if it wasn't too late to join her for Christmas dinner.  He would stop being foolish and silly and alone.  Decision made, he shut his eyes briefly, breathed deep, lost track of time.

His eyes snapped open at the faintest non-noise.  His perceptions conjured up quiet footfall sounds of the creaky top step outside his door, and, as he lay there awake, his eyes open as his mind focused on these heightened sensations.  The night was serenely quiet, and his eyes cut to the liquor on the table.  It was still untouched.  He hadn't somnambulated his way into drinking, which was mildly reassuring.  He lay quietly, eyes wide, listening and waiting.  Off across the city, a few bells were chiming faintly, and the occasional automobile rumblings were mostly distant background noise.  John stared at the doorknob, wavering between willing it to turn or not to turn.

The door opened, not quite soundless, the hinges swinging wide and a gloved hand under a wool coat sleeve became visible.  A long leg appeared then, coat falling aside to show dark trousers over dress black leather shoes.  John didn't flinch as Sherlock appeared to stand then, inside the flat, his eyes seeking out John's, while the door closed with a quiet snick of the latch.

"Happy Christmas."  The beautiful baritone voice uttered the words, softly, gently into the stillness of the room.

John stayed motionless as he willed himself to breathe easily, calmly.  "I swear to God," his own voice was low, fierce, threatening.  "if you think to leave this flat before I have been given a sufficient explanation for this _madness,_ I will drag your sorry arse back to the top of Barts and _throw you off for real this time_."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise not to let John become an alcoholic in this story. Although it has been pointed out that a lot of scenes in all slightly-less-than 4 seasons seem to put John and some sort of liquor in the mix.
> 
> There will be some enlightening parallel scenes here that coincide with Season 3, as well as some preparatory discussions and events that lead into Season 4. 
> 
> Let me know if something sneaked by me - I am terrible at last minute panicked editing! I enjoy comments, feedback, and kudos if you're inclined. The chapter count is approximate because I tend to write myself into a corner if I'm not careful!


	2. The Stage is Set...

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's anger at Sherlock's deception may pale in comparison to how angry he is that Sherlock is using drugs again with no plans to stop. But he is recruited to help, if possible, as Sherlock untangles the mystery of Moriarty. Oh, and all must be done with John acting as if he believes Sherlock is still dead. First, however, let's have a bit of fun on Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Ever been writing along with the goal in mind (you can read that as 'bed') and they just won't go? The front end of this chapter is longer than I thought it would be, but they absolutely get there (several times) in this chapter, although I thought I might have had to tie them up and drag them there myself. Oh, wait. Better save that for chapter 5. [If the plot cooperates, the tags will reflect safe, consensual activities. I'm already starting to look forward to it!]

John had just flawlessly delivered:  _"I swear to God, if you think to leave this flat before I have been given a sufficient explanation for this madness, I will drag your sorry arse back to the top of Barts and throw you off for real this time."_    And it felt bloody fantastic.  Even as anger linked hands with hurt and betrayal, it was a satisfying statement to make.

It took an immense amount of willpower to stay reclining on the couch as Sherlock locked the closed door, hung up his coat, and took off his gloves.  It was also not a small feat to come across as a serious threat while recumbent, but judging from the somber and perhaps surprisingly cowed expression Sherlock was wearing, that message had, in fact, been appropriately sent and received.

"I told you I'd be home for Christmas, John."  

" _Don't you dare_ ignore what I just said."  He kept his tone low, intense, stern.

Sherlock approached until his knees were eye level as John forced himself to stay on the couch, and moments later, Sherlock had lowered himself to the floor, sitting very close to where John lay.  He leaned in, slowly, his eyes never leaving John's, until they closed and his head found the cushion on which John was laying.  He was close but not touching, having just made the first move and leaving the next up to John.  It was there in that position that they stayed for long minutes while John's inner battle raged, and he was both losing and winning concurrently.  He touched Sherlock's curls, guided his head up, and pressed soft warm lips on Sherlock's as he spread out his fingers along the angled jaw.  John felt warm breath exhaled against his face as he lay still, felt lips moving, felt a slight swipe of a tongue coming up against him, the shiny smoothness of teeth as he opened his mouth, receiving, asking, seeking, searching, desperation finally driving him to action.  He edged up on an elbow, bringing his other hand around Sherlock's shoulder, pulling and grabbing.  Before long, they were both nearly gasping with heat and air hunger, and they pulled away slightly.

John's breath came hard, labouring as if he'd just run across the desert with his 10 stone medical pack in 50 degree heat.  His eyes caught a glimpse of Sherlock's hand as a tender expression came across his face after he reached up with fingertips to the edges of John's eyes, brushed, came away wet with the tears John hadn't been aware of.  He snorted a quick burst of laughter, sat up and abruptly pushed Sherlock away.  "I'm royally furious with you.   _How dare you.  And you made me bloody watch."_  Rewind to the roof, the phone call, the broken body lying lifeless on the kerb, the horror of the days after.  Visceral pain, a sudden vital amputation with no warning and no anaesthesia. _"_ But I don't know if I want to kiss you again or punch you in the face."

"I'm amenable to both if you feel you must."  But even as he said it, Sherlock leaned slightly farther away, looking for some degree of self-protection if John did indeed decide to haul off and slug him.

It sank in, then, that Sherlock bloody Holmes was living, breathing, and sitting next to him.  In their flat.  The previous months since ... _just_ _since ..._  John recalled the heartbreak and despair he'd slogged through.  The therapist visits.  The phone calls from friends early on, concerned that, just maybe, John wouldn't be answering the phone.  The times John sat across the room from his Sig, thinking how cowardly it would be to use it.  The mounting bills that drove him back to work, and the numbness he found there initially, ghosting through surgery appointments, competent yet detached.  Then the satisfaction he found in helping people, even _him_ , a broken retired army man, still a doctor capable of service.  His hands came up over his face as he wanted to hide from this important person, this important piece of his life, to obscure how devastated he'd been, to conceal how much it had mattered.  

 _"Oh, God, John.  I'm sorry_."  The words were whispered, near his ear. There was such brokenness in the tone, that John suppressed the sob that threatened to wrack his own body as he struggled upright.  Sherlock assured him, "And I will explain it all to you."

++ 

John's eyes narrowed.  "So you're telling me, and expecting me to believe, that you didn't think I'd be able to help you, keep your secret, then."  Stony silence was all he got from Sherlock, which he took as agreement.  "Mycroft knew, and your parents.   _Molly_ knew."  There was continued silence, non responsiveness, and John at least recognised that Sherlock was allowing John's mind to catch up with both the emotional betrayal and the rejection.  John stood up, a caged animal fighting the enclosure.  Restless energy drove him to circle the flat, again, and he paused at the skull.  "I almost took a hammer to this, you know."  John pinched the bridge of his nose, checked the time.  They'd been at this grueling, exhausting conversation for a long time, and it was taking its toll.  "Where have you been staying?"

"I've been out of the country mostly.  But here I have a number of places, boltholes.  Most recently in one of Mycroft's cottages outside of town.  Homeless network a few times --"

"So they knew, too."  John spoke with crisp, clipped words.

"John."

"You're such a fuckwit sometimes."  He faced the skull, shoulders back, arms deadly still at his side.  "I would have helped you.  What you did to me was the lowest of low things imaginable."

"John."

" _Shut. Up_.  I'm not done."  He breathed, continued, words flowing out in a torrent of aggravation, his voice growing more upset as he railed against the inexcusable behaviour, then turned to face him.  Sherlock at least had the good graces to be slightly flushed about those cheekbones, and John couldn't help but fantasize about seeing them marked with red palm-prints.  "And I suppose I can understand why you did it initially, perhaps, although I am still highly insulted.  But to stay away for this long, waiting, just waiting, while I...  while I...   _bloody suffered_ without you?!  One word - one bloody fucking _word_ , Sherlock - is all it would have taken, rather than to continue the deception of the other night when you only felt safe coming while I was on a bender.  Talk about being taken advantage of, you bastard.  And it was rather sporting of you to make sure I parroted back at you, 'no regret'.  Well, guess what, _I regret plenty_.  And you should too."  John stopped then, and Sherlock just watched him, silently, waiting for him to continue.  Sherlock's silence was John's undoing, and he'd suddenly had enough and was overwhelmed and knackered.  With a dull voice, he stated, "I'm going to bed."  And he stood still, there, unable to completely leave the room without asking, "Will you be here in the morning?"

He nodded, looking contrite for a bit, and then looked away.  "I was hoping to join you."  John did not let his anger be suppressed by the harsh realisation that this Sherlock in front of him was vastly different, softer, more mellow, than the pre-rooftop experience person he knew. _Move on, Watson_.

"Yeah, well, I would have been _hoping to join you too_ , but I wasn't invited, was I?"  Brow raised, he let his icy look linger on Sherlock until his point of present non-invitation made Sherlock turn away in discomfort at the words.  John turned on his heel, switched off all the lights as if Sherlock wasn't even there, double checked the locked door, and went to the stairs.  "You should know that... " and John paused here, weighing his words carefully "... I would very much like your company, but I just can't.  Not tonight."

"It's fine."  His voice was quiet, defeated perhaps, and John held firm.  Sherlock looked as if he had much more to say, but held his tongue.

John dug into his medical pack in the bathroom, found his emergency stash of sleep aid tablets, took half of one, and went to bed.  He lay awake for quite some time after, listening for signs of life in the flat, heard absolutely none.

++

The morning found Sherlock's door shut, and John showered, put on tea (for two, after approximately a four-second debate), scratched his stomach idly as it steeped, and then he carefully carried both mugs down the hall toward Sherlock's room.  The door opened as he approached, obviously he'd been anticipated ( _no surprises there_ ), and John entered silently, handing the mug off as he did.

Sherlock sipped, perched back on the bed, legs crossed at the ankle, and relaxed into the duvet as the first sip of the tea apparently was very pleasant indeed.  "Nectar of the gods, John, your tea."

"Yeah, well, you're welcome."  John leaned against the wall, eyes dark and, John hoped, somewhat unreadable.  "Happy Christmas."

"To you as well."

"What are your plans?"  John was not about to be anything less than pointed and direct.  "For today as well as... the rest."

"Plans are a bit up in the air at the moment."  Unsurprised at the vague answer, John held steady as Sherlock sipped through the steam, seeming to be thoroughly enjoying himself.  He caught John's eye, smirked a bit.  "In the short term, mainlining your tea as much as possible."

The smile John was able to return to him did much to lower the anxiety of the room.  "You said, when you were here before, that you wanted my help soon."  He paused.  "What did that mean, exactly?"

"I'd like to wait for this discussion."  Sherlock's gaze was sharp and pleading.  "Because if you can be patient just a bit longer, there is a meeting I'll be having with Mycroft, and I would like you there.  It will be largely dependent on his intelligence, which, at this time, is incomplete."

"Of course I want to be there.  To help."

Sherlock stared at the ceramic mug in both hands and cleared his throat.  "You have already helped a great deal.  More than you could possibly know.  Your grief, John, has been real and obvious and to anyone watching, it has done more toward the solving of this problem than any other singular thing we've tried.  Your help has already been invaluable."  He waited for John to acknowledge his statement, then continued.  "I can tell you definitely that my return will be very deliberately timed, so for now, you will" and when he could see John bristle at the direct order, he added, " _we will_ , maintain the status quo.  This has to remain between us."

"You're still dead, then."

"And you're still grieving."

Still dead.  Still grieving.  John didn't like a thing about either statement.  "Well, between us and the rather large handful of people who already know."  Bitterness crept into his words a little, and he backed down, "I understand what you said, but it doesn't change the fact that it was hurtful."  Still leaning on the wall, John stared at the man he'd thought he'd known, thought he'd lost, and knew that - as much as he'd fussed about Sherlock's use of the phrase no regrets - he was done waiting, done being on the outskirts, done waiting for safe, cautious, and definitely done being delicate.  "What do you want from me?"

"I want to work together, solve this with you."  His voice trailed off, and a sad expression presented as he set his tea down.  His head leaned back against the headboard, and his eyes looked fatigued.  "I want to come _home_."  John recognised the broken honesty in the tone and the words, the inflection, and ached a bit on his behalf.  His position was not an easy one, either.

Resisting the urge to cross the room and wrap Sherlock in an embrace that would not easily be pried off, John's problem solving physician mind took over - practical, systematic, and rational.  "What's standing in the way?"  He was requesting a diagnosis, a list of symptoms, in order to find an appropriate treatment plan.  Something curative.

"Moriarty."

"Is dead?"

"So it would seem.  But something he left behind, set in motion, that is not over yet.  And I'm _missing_ something."

John had many more questions that he wanted to interject, but knew it would only add to Sherlock's frustration at being unable to quickly resolve the situation.  It was too soon, so instead, he asked, "When are we meeting with Mycroft?"

"Tomorrow, suppertime."  If Sherlock cared about John's choice of pronoun, the 'we', he didn't react to it.  "We'll meet here, it will be safest, for now."

John nodded in understanding.  "So until then?"

Sherlock lifted his head again to gaze right into John's serious intense eyes.  "I'm all yours."  The statement was calculated all the way, John knew, as Sherlock played his next card, testing the water to see what John's response would be.  And John, who had invaded Afghanistan, now invaded Sherlock's personal challenge.

"Well, then, I have every intention of claiming every bit of you."

"What do you mean?"

"You're the genius, figure it out."  John softened the harsh words with an intentionally shy, elusive smile of his own and he appreciated the look of intrigue in Sherlock's eye and the flare of excitement.  "While you're in the shower."

With a slight misstep, Sherlock nearly forgot his tea, within a few minutes the shower kicked on and John set to work.  He was efficient, had always been so, and by the time the shower ended, there were clean sheets and a few items retrieved from John's bedside table.

One towel wrapped low on his hips, Sherlock returned to the bedroom using another to dry his curls.  "'twas nice to use my shampoo again."

"I thought about tossing it."  John had finished the last of his tea.  "Smelled it once or twice.  It made me..."  The pain trailed off unspoken.

Sherlock hung the towel over the doorknob, ran his fingers through the barely damp curls, inclined his head at John.  "Have at it?"

He let his head shake very slightly at the offer, stayed where he was.  "You want more tea?"

Sherlock stood, clad in the towel, looking fairly awkward and uncomfortable.  "I don't know," he answered finally.

"Am I making you nervous?"

"A bit."  He exhaled, looked pointedly away.  "I mean, the sheets, whatever else you brought downstairs, I'm underdressed, and I don't know..."

John held up a hand, interrupting the flight of ideas.  "It's ok.  There's no rush."  As John spoke the words aloud, he didn't actually know if they were even remotely true, and decided that at that instant he didn't really want to know how much time they actually had.  Gathering up both empty mugs, he moved to the doorway.  "If you are interested, throw on a robe or something and I'll make you breakfast."  John congratulated himself on doing the honourable thing while he so wanted Sherlock-in-the-sheets for breakfast.  But, he realised as he scrounged for something to fry up, when it happened - and it would definitely, certainly happen - he wanted it to be for the right reasons.

When Sherlock returned to the kitchen, John caught the faintest wisp of Sherlock's hair products, whatever he usually fussed into his curls, and it nearly made his mouth water at the wholly pleasant associations.  The kettle had boiled again, and tea was definitely going to be on the menu for the duration.  Sherlock stood watching John cut up some potato, onion, pepper to serve in an omelet.  John considered it had been over a year since they'd had breakfast together. 

"I didn't get you anything for Christmas, by the way."  John saw Sherlock looking through the few holiday cards that were on the mantel.  "I would have if you'd let me know you were coming."  

"I did let you know."  There was a smirk as he picked up the nearly empty bottle of Jameson.  "Sort of."

He watched the restlessness in his former flatmate carry him around the room, looking, poking, refreshing his memories, apparently, in silence.  He made up his mind to attempt to put Sherlock more at ease.  "Did you bring me something?" John asked.  When Sherlock was puzzled, John continued, "For Christmas?"

"I thought one surprise was likely sufficient."  Sherlock leaned close to peer over John's arm as he cooked.  "Want help with that?"

"I got it.  But thanks."  There was awkward small talk as they readied plates and then ate.  John was pleased with the amount and voracity with which Sherlock ate, highly unusual, and when he asked when his last meal was, he was truly uncertain as to when that actually had been.  Some things, he realised, don't change all that much.  But he was hoping with equal fervor, that _some other things_ were about to change rather dramatically.

John leaned back at the table then, hoping he was more casual on the outside than he felt inwardly, and began, "So, when you were here last time, what were you really hoping to accomplish?"

"I ... just wanted to see you."  There was just enough uncertainty that John reminded himself to keep it light.

"Purely a social visit, then?"  Sherlock shrugged, and John could almost palpate the barriers he was trying to erect between them on these more sensitive subjects.  "Refresh my memory, then, if you would, on that night, because I'm a tad foggy."  Mostly John did recall all of the details, but thought leaving Sherlock a bit of room to wriggle his way around might suit them both better at this stage.  "Who started it?"

"Started it."

"Yes, you heard me the first time.  Who made the first move?"  When Sherlock seemed like he was just going to echo the phrase back at him, he shook his head.  "Just answer the bloody question."

The expression on Sherlock's face was carefully blank and John could well imagine he was running many versions of an answer to that question and trying to determine which one he preferred.  And, in typical character, he would likely dispense with the truth and pick the best lie.

John's courage swelled as he was obviously knowing he was going to have to be the direct party here.  "Okay, fine.  I'll tell you what I remember.  I think it might have been me.  You and your..." he realised, even as bold as he was trying to act, that this had been easier after a tumbler of alcohol. "... bloody kissable mouth."

"It might have been you, yes."

"But you didn't resist, didn't protest."

"No."

"And perhaps _you_ started it, early in the day, with the music, and Angelo's, and the candle."  There was a slight flush on Sherlock's face.  "The candy canes.  The Jameson's."

"I cannot control anyone's thoughts.  Or actions."

"Bollocks on that.  Not control, per se, but you can absolutely, certainly lead someone, plant suggestions.  Particularly to someone you know well."  John made sure he wasn't coming across annoyed, but amused.  And Sherlock was keeping up, looking pleasantly intrigued.  "Were you disappointed at all?"

"Disappointed, no."

"But..." John prompted, then waited.

"There might have been other things I may have wanted to do.  Or at least try."

"Other things such as?"

He pursed his lips as John watched him, eyes sparkling, as John twisted the screws just a little, forcing him to speak what John was already pretty sure he was intending.  "Oh for God's sake, John."  He picked up the tea, looked away, tried to hide behind the mug.

"So you want to have sex with me but you can't even say it out loud?  I would certainly hope that, if it was supposed to be your first time, that you would not orchestrate conditions in which your partner might be too impaired to be careful?"  John hoped he would still get the information he wanted, whether or not Sherlock picked up on John's methods.  He may be acutely perceptive, John thought, but this topic was more _John's area_ in many respects.

"Oh, it wouldn't have been the first time.  Not exactly."  An eye narrowed as Sherlock considered that John was being just as manipulative as he was.  "And you would have been considerate.  It's in your DNA."

"Not a virgin, then, really?"  If someone had told him a few weeks ago that today he'd be sitting in the kitchen discussing Sherlock's sexual past, he would have never believed it.  He couldn't stop the fact that his eyebrow raised curiously as he glanced over at Sherlock, who was sitting there mostly looking bored.

"Well, perhaps the first time without being high.  Or strung out."  He made a dismissive motion with his hand.  "Payment for cocaine, years before, when funds were short.  I had no other options."

"Not using was a viable option."

"Not really."

"So, you're still ... interested?"

"Of course.  You have always been the variable, John.  You're the one with the mixed signals, mixed messages.  I've wanted this a long time."  The eye contact revealed much, and Sherlock quantified, "Since the pool."

John recalled that day with great clarify, being used as a pawn by Moriarty as means to get to Sherlock.  "I realized it on the roof.  And then you tossed the damn mobile away and it was too late."  A comfortable silence followed, the words, even as yet unspoken, conveying the intended message.  "I had a lot of things I never got to say to you."  John waited until Sherlock looked at him, smiled encouragingly, and told him, as he changed subjects with deliberate care, "There are rules."

Sherlock rolled his eyes, looked heavenward in exaggerated despair, and said, "Of _course_ there are rules, John.  This is you, and you _always_ have rules."  He could have listed endless edicts John had enacted over the years, regarding flat behaviour, nicotine patches, injuries, medications, alcohol, things to say, things not to say, refrigerator etiquette, and many others.  Some of which, mostly by accident, he had followed at times.  Not often.

John's smile was broad, and he teased, "There are times, even you, Sherlock Holmes, follow directions."

"Not willingly."  The awkwardness had gone, and Sherlock was still a bit stiff in the chair, but he hadn't shut down:  a good thing.  "Rules are boring."

"I would like to point out, then, that there are times I ask you to do something, and you actually listen."  He stretched out his leg so that his ankle was touching Sherlock's, and it was decidedly a pleasant connection, not just the touch but the visual, both of them in socks and pyjamas.  Clearly, though, even as they both focused on the ankle connection, Sherlock didn't really believe what John was saying.  "After your funeral, I paid a little visit to your headstone.  I asked you not to be dead."  John vividly recalled that terrible day there in the cemetery, the vice-grip around his guts as he talked at the grave marker.  "I asked you for one more miracle."

"I listen only when it suits me, John.  You know this."  He watched John's toes, felt the cord of muscle as it wriggled against his own leg.  "You may be interested to know that I was there to hear you in the cemetery.  I listened."

"Of course you were there.  I have never had any bloody secrets from you."  John breathed a laugh, then.  "Thank you for listening, I think.  And keep listening now, because this matters.  If we're taking this -" and he gestured between them and rocked his leg against Sherlock's "- to another level, physically, it is not okay with me if you're doing this as payment, or retribution, or out of guilt, or even just because you think I want to, or for any reason other than ..." and John scrambled for words that wouldn't be off-putting "... the fact that we want to, that it feels good, that we care about each other."

 "You realize you've just completely killed the mood with your bloody talking and analysis and trying to play it safe.  You should know that right now there is almost nothing safe about me."

"I do know that.  You warned me you were dangerous, and well, here I am.  Even more surprising in light of what happened.  And I refuse to walk away from this because it might be difficult.  You are difficult, but so am I."  John stood, paused only a moment before bending down to convey the depth of his need and longing with his lips on Sherlock's.  "Care to join me?"

++

Sated, John couldn't stop the contented, low growl from deep in his chest from sounding as he rolled over, pulling Sherlock along with him, their skin warm.  The sweat was now cooling and he felt Sherlock's cheek contour change against his shoulder as he felt the smile in response to the sound.

"When can we do that again?" Sherlock asked, even as his hand crept down over John's ribs, settling on his waist but hinting at sliding lower.  "The average refractory period for a male of your age is approximately -"

"Stop.  Stop right there.  You're going to be sore."

"You were careful, it should be a _good_ sore."

"You shouldn't have done that."

They'd started off with a slow build, until Sherlock decided John was taking entirely too long, and took matters into his own hands.  He'd pushed John over on his back, together they'd stumbled through some antics with lubricant and getting a condom on John, until their hands were slick and so was much of John's groin.  Before John could slide more than one preparatory finger up against Sherlock, the berk had risen up on his knees, sunk down, and ridden hard for all he was worth.  John's hands bracketed him, trying to slow him down, ease the pace, but Sherlock's long legs and bony elbows had made short work of John's hesitancy.  Finally, long minutes in, John mostly gave up and settled for wrapping his strong hand around Sherlock's hard shaft.  All was lost to John when the moan that came from the depths of Sherlock's very core revealed exactly how sensitive - and likely inexperienced at receiving pleasure - he was.  It was expeditious that Mrs. Hudson had left for the day, as the keening and words - _don't stop, oh God, John, harder, faster, give it to me immediately!_ \- short circuited the rest of John's restraint.  The orgasm that shook Sherlock's frame left John almost incoherent as well, reduced to very focused sensations, watching expressions on Sherlock's face that clearly no one had ever seen before, of ecstasy and wonder and delight.  It was powerful, moving, seeing the breadth of exactly how much the man was unleashed, broken apart, the pieces collapsing on John's chest, heaving, as a few more upward thrusts was all John needed to bring about his own climax.  

"There are more things I want to try, John.  It's, doing this while clear-minded, I mean, has been rather... enlightening."

John wrapped an arm around Sherlock's thin frame, pulling him a bit closer to bury his nose in the dark curls.  "You're going to need to give me a few minutes.  At least."

"Sleep then.  It'll hasten things along."

"Stop giving me orders.  God, just...  Will you relax?"  John inhaled again, feeling a huff of frustrated breathing against his axilla and the clench of Sherlock's mandible against him.  "Let me have this, just, please?"  Their loose hands joined, then, against John's stomach, and John brushed his lips against Sherlock's temple as he felt Sherlock's conscious deliberate decision to not rail against John's request.  A knee came in over John's leg, sliding toes against John's calf.  The firmly muscled, softly furred legs settled then, and he breathed a quiet "Thank you," against Sherlock's head.  The physical sensations of recent release, skin against skin, the pounding heart rate he could feel thudding against him - too thin, still - felt so very much alive and enjoyable and unexpected.  Endorphins circulating, oxytocin levels peaking, the quick rise secondary to orgasm, then plummeting, heart rates settling, brain so alive now comfortably relaxing.  The warm body next to him - so precious and needed and missed and imperative to his very existence now - relaxed, lulling him to Morpheus, that John's grip on wakefulness eased more quickly than his grip on the man in his arms.

When he awoke, the bed and his arms were empty.  But his throat?  Full of dread and nausea and the darkest pit of abandonment.  He could feel his heart pounding, skin tingling, fight or flight mechanisms engaged.  He stared at the empty side of the bed for a moment as his foot stretched out to find the temperature of the sheets still slightly warm, not long ago emptied, then.  A voice spoke from across the room, "Oh good, you're awake."  His head snapped around to see Sherlock sitting in the chair by the doorway, legs crossed at the ankle under his dressing gown, his thumbs moving silently on his mobile.  A smile grew, territorial, charming, on Sherlock's face as he set the mobile aside in uncharacteristic focus on something other than the electronic device, at least in the past.  "Feeling refreshed?"

John felt his breath un-hitch in his chest, and he exhaled through pursed lips.  "Panicked, more like it."  Sherlock angled his head, brows together, stating his question with a look.  "Thought you'd left.  Again."

Understanding dawned, and Sherlock simply shrugged.  "I will not disappear, John, I swear it."  The man did not make promises lightly, John knew, and he nodded, tried to accept the statement as fact.  "I won't leave again without telling you.  Hopefully."  The amendment was unfortunate.

"And _there it is_ , on the table.  Unless it suits you, you mean."  John threw the covers back, feeling the catecholamine surge easing as he stood naked, facing Sherlock.  "Pardon me if I don't trust you."

"I wouldn't trust me either."  Sherlock was serious, big blue eyes taking in much in what he saw in John's stance.  "I'm not trustworthy."

"I'm not arguing with you on that.  But I think there's potential, and I also happen to think that you, that _this_ ," he said, gesturing between them, "is worth it."

"You're very distracting, standing there."

"Don't change the subject.  Sex is not a weapon."  John wanted to believe Sherlock would tell him, would warn him what was coming, but fully believed that, in Sherlock's mind, the end justified the means.  He'd plunged off a building, for God's sake, of course he do whatever he deemed necessary with little thought to the feelings of others.

"Sex is definitely a weapon.  Ask anyone.  Ask Irene."  Sherlock's mention of The Woman's name conjured up all sorts of uncertain emotions in John, and he could almost hear, within the confines of his head, the breathy, sensual moan of Sherlock's incoming text tone when the sender had been _her_.  It was an unwelcome association, probably another manipulation on Sherlock's part to keep John off-balance.  The wanker.

"Just stop it."  John knew Sherlock had assured him the meeting tomorrow would answer questions, but had a burning need to know something first.  "How long are you staying here?"

"I have a flight out tomorrow night.  Late."

"I see."

"It will all make more sense tomorrow."  Tomorrow.  Information.  And another goodbye.  John swallowed hard, and could already feel himself erecting walls and fortifying his defences.  Sherlock waited for John to get his wits about him, push down the emotion, steel his resolve.  It was silently acknowledged, a necessary conscious decision to, for now, sidestep the issues.  "Can I ask you something?"  John nodded, hoping Sherlock would ask him to join him even as he knew that wasn't going to be the case.   _Steady on_ , Watson.  "More tea?"  He couldn't stop the smirk that he knew was on his face, but the smirk changed to something else entirely when Sherlock continued.  "And then, maybe you can join me in the shower.  Not that we're keeping score or anything, but I think I might owe you a blow job."

"No, I agree, we're not keeping score.  But another shower, and the rest, sounds like a workable way to spend Christmas."

++

They were back in bed, again, satiated.  John could barely look at Sherlock's mouth.  He would never again picture it without seeing what had just transpired - the bowed lips under blue eyes, surrounded by long-fingered, needy and insistent hands, pressing, lifting, probing.  The absolute intent focus, the relentless suction and Sherlock's hands encouraging John to thrust in a slowly building rhythm.  And the swallowing that preceded the slightest tearing at the corner of Sherlock's eyes, carefully pulling back enough to avoid choking.  When John had recovered enough, the grin on Sherlock's face as he took in John's wrecked expression was something he wished he could capture, keep, hold, and cherish.  And indeed, he would remember it for the many tomorrows that he was, for now, going to pretend were still a long way off.  Sherlock had only taken a few firm strokes of John's hand to come, and they were, at least for the moment, at peace.

Sherlock sat up in the bed, then, an arm casually leaning over a knee under the duvet.  Warm light brought out the burgundy tones of his hair, and John had two separate schools of surrealistic thought at that moment - one being that he was breathtakingly gorgeous and at home there lounging naked in the bed, and the other being that clearly, obviously, there was something of mission critical importance that was about to be said.  John knew with every mitochondrial fiber of his being that he wasn't going to like it.

Pale blue eyes flickered to John's - apologetically - and then studied something of no interest or significance on the edge of his thumbnail.  "John," he began in somber tones, "So, there's something you need to know."  He had John's full attention, anticipated the question.  "Before tomorrow."

Multiple scenarios began clambering for attention in the rapidly firing synapses of John's mind, most of them unpleasant and all of them triggering a bit of nausea as he realised there was going to be another dramatic 'goodbye' to the man presently in the bed with him.

"You're not going to like it."  Sherlock's uncharacteristic tenderness triggered nausea, it must be stupendously terrible, and John took a deep breath, tried to prepare.

"That is abundantly obvious.  What is it then?"  It had never been ready, aim, fire with Sherlock.   _Ready, fire, aim - just get on with it already_.  Just pull the _damn_ _trigger_.

"About what's coming."  It was small consolation that Sherlock didn't want to speak any of this either, he sensed.  "Moriarty may or may not be gone, I mean, we - Mycroft and I - think he's dead, but there have been a few indicators that question that, in any case.  With or without him, signs are indicative of a network of espionage and deceit, and while I couldn't involve you previously, I find it imperative that you cooperate now."  Sherlock's eyes more than his words conveyed that he was uncertain, perhaps a bit fearful of his circumstance.

The bristling in John's mind as he acknowledged Sherlock had, once again, made assumptions and given him no choice at all in the matter.  He clenched his jaw to prevent arguing until he'd heard more, having learned over the years that to fuss at Sherlock too early in any negotiation process led to shut down and exclusion, and he'd had bloody _enough_ of that.

"You're going to meet someone, soon, if we can read this correctly, probably at the clinic, a nurse who may be related to Moriarty.  Sister or cousin, it matters not.  She is going to pursue you, attempt to play you for all you're worth, to make sure that I am most certainly dead.

"You have to play along.  Marry her if necessary."  At that, Sherlock's voice wavered just enough to let John know he wasn't enthralled with the idea, either.  "Once your relationship appears to be solidly heading toward permanence, at some point, I will return.  Act furious -- "

"Oh, it won't be acting."

"I have suspicions that she will get pregnant, if not with your baby, she will try to pass off another man's baby as yours."  He took a deep breath, plunged on.  "I don't know what to think about a baby in the mix.  I could be mistaken.  But your choice here will have serious implications for your own future plans.  She will use a child as leverage over you."

"And our -- well, I guess it all depends, but -- it could affect _our_ future plans too."  John was having a hard time, of course, grasping the breadth of any of these things Sherlock was trying to enlighten him about.  "It could change everything."

"I thought you always wanted a family."

"Probably not with a woman like this."  He left unsaid all the unknown variables about whatever their relationship was and would develop into.  He knew that whatever this was presently was going to change, of course.

"I have reason to believe she may try to kill me.  Once I return, you may be in more danger, too, if we aren't careful.  Extreme measures may be needed to get close to those she works for.  There is a possibility I may be arrested for a serious crime I may have to commit."

The silence grew then, and John allowed the seriousness of what Sherlock was advising him to sink in, to permeate.  This was going to get ugly, no matter what he said.

"Mycroft is working behind the scenes already to attempt to uncover the remaining two snipers as well as their connections up the hierarchy of their organisation." He explained that the first one ended up very elusive, requiring these last months to track and then locate, only to be _removed_.  John let his eyes drift closed as he realised that Mycroft had been so involved in this ... deception, tried not to feel slighted, failed.

"Does he know about this?" John asked quietly before he could stop the question, gesturing between their bodies as they lay there.  "Never mind, actually I find that I don't really care."

"He suspects, for what it's worth.  He'll figure it out immediately tomorrow, have no doubt."  There was a sparkle in Sherlock's expression then, and John felt warm toes sliding up under his knee.  "I made a wager with him that you would be home last night, and he bet that you would have accepted an invitation out."

"Well, that explains the motivation behind the invite from him, then."  John sighed.  "So what did you win?  Other than my affections, I mean."  Sherlock acknowledged the jest with an odd tilt of his head, not quite an eye-roll.  "What was the prize?"

"I would have owed him plum pudding.  One of his many epicurean weaknesses.  As it stands, he owes me another bottle of Jameson."  The slight groan John let out had Sherlock quick to continue.  "For you, once you can tolerate it again."

"Not anytime soon," he said, recalling the hangover and fuzzy memories.  He was grateful, presently, for his clear head, glad he'd had nothing to drink this time.  John then grew very serious again, as it became apparent that the nature of these plans became weighty in his mind.  "Okay, I suppose I don't have much say in this - thank you very much yet again, you bastard.  I don't see that I have any choice but to go along with your scheme."

Sherlock blinked a few times, then nodded slightly with a sad smile.  "There is always a choice.  If this is unacceptable, I will endeavor to find another way 'round.  But it may involve you anyway, as I said, you are already being watched and considered a useful tool, a pawn, to assure that I am dead."

"At least this way, your way," John breathed, "you have better odds and a bit more control."

"Thank you for seeing it."

"I'm not as much of an idiot as you accused me of ... before."

The sideways smirky smile showed up then, but it was bittersweet, and John's skin tingled with catecholamines as the sense of foreboding crept across his limbs.  It was sinister.  "There's more, isn't there.  What aren't you telling me?"  John could just feel the ominous presence of an enemy there in the room with them, and he could well imagine that sickening feeling of watching Sherlock plummet off Barts, again, reliving the terror and heartbreak.

"You know about my drug history."

"Of course I do."

"I'm using again, John, as I find it helpful from time to time.  Not yesterday, certainly not today.  I'm not an addict.  But you should know that I may have to continue, and it may become necessary -- "

_"Bloody hell!"_

"John --"

"No.  Stop it."  When Sherlock opened his mouth to contradict John, John grew emphatic.  " _No_ , you don't need it.  You said before it made you think on a higher level, but it doesn't.  Just. Stop it."

"I can't.  I choose not to."  He looked away, knowing he was a disappointment yet again to this man who had tolerated so much and was now being asked to tolerate something that he considered absolutely, wholly, completely unacceptable.  "It may prove expedient to actually be known as a user, with documented positive drug screens, associating with known dealers or users - it may further my ability to work without raising suspicion.  Plus, without you, I ...  After I left, after the roof ... "  His voice trailed off, broken, and he changed tacks.  "It helps me think."

 _"I'll_ help you, don't do it again."

"You're going to be ...busy.  And with someone else, I can't ..."

"It's not safe.  You don't have good limits."  John heard the jealousy, the sentiment, the caring unspoken in the tone and the words.

"I do.  Mycroft and I have a system..."

"Mycroft.  What does bloody Mycroft have to do with this now?  He _approves_?"

"He understands."

John would have gnawed his finger off before glorifying that statement with a response.  He let his disapproval wrap around them like a tangible cloud of unhappiness.

"We have an agreement that I will keep a list of what I take, and how much, in case..."

And when Sherlock wouldn't finish the sentence, John dug his heels in after a moment, and decided to make him utter the words aloud.  "In case _what_?"

Silence.

"In case, what, Sherlock?"

"In case of accidental overdose."

"You are a bloody bastard, you know that?"

"I'll keep a list.  Trust me."

"Right.  Good idea.  Says the man whose headstone lies over a fraudulent grave in the cemetery."  John's teeth clenched as a small chuckle came from the very un-dead man lying next to him, the man whose toes were creeping up along his thigh.  

"There's something else, too."

"God, you're going to be the death of me, Sherlock.  Now what?"

"You're going to need to find a new flat."  John could only stare, hoping beyond measure that he'd misunderstood, misheard, something.  "You need to leave Baker Street."

"I don't want to leave here."

"I'll give you three good - _extremely good_ \- reasons why you need to:  the flat is under surveillance, we are sure of it; even me coming here these two times has been risky although I have used the utmost vigilance.  Also, your presence here seems to imply that you have not moved on, that you are waiting, in limbo - as if you may be awaiting my return.  And lastly, the flat you choose, conceivably, could have convenient access, in the event you were to entertain a visitor who does not wish to be seen."  

John glanced around the bedroom, not that he'd really ever spent much time in it, but he considered it and all it represented, to be his home.  But he understood what Sherlock was asking.  He was about to reluctantly consent, when Sherlock spoke again.  "We'll keep it, of course.  Mycroft will handle the rent, and Mrs. Hudson will agree, though I think it may be wise for you to visit her from time to time as you are able.  We can return here, if you still want, when this is all over."  Sherlock knew what he was asking, knew how much it was costing, and leaned in close to John, offering a new method of what he perceived as comforting:  a hug.  John reveled in it, clung briefly to the offered arms and bony shoulder, then placed a hand between them, pushed Sherlock back enough to look him in the eye.

"All right.  Let it be done as you have said.  But I have a few conditions of my own."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> According to the Daily Express, British soldiers carry "10 stone packs in 50 degree heat" and this practice has been leading to increased ankle injuries among UK soldiers. (http://www.express.co.uk/news/uk/188986/British-soldiers-suffer-injuries-from-too-heavy-weights)
> 
> As usual, please let me know if I let something slip through unnoticed. I can't seem to resist those last minute edits and the anxiety-induced heart pounding over the "post chapter" button!
> 
> I can assure you that one of John Watson's condition will include a supply of naloxone to be included with the _list_.
> 
> I am looking forward to unraveling the little question marks about The Abominable Bride that niggled in my mind. Stay tuned for those!


	3. The Curtain Rises

It seemed John had barely laid out his conditions - and he really considered them  _demands_ \- when Sherlock agreed to most of them without as much fuss as John expected, which, when he would think about it later, was actually more disturbing than not.  Some, they both knew, we're going to take time, planning, and a dependence on Mycroft's connections and assistance to enact.  But Sherlock was willing, and John counted that fortuitous.  Before he could really even catch his breath, his mobile rang.

John's flipped his mobile over to identify the caller.   _Harry_.  He answered it on speaker.

"John, happy Christmas!"

"You too.  Nice day so far?"

"Absolutely.  You?"  Pleasantries and niceties swapping, all of which made Sherlock edgy and looking like he would disconnect the call with little provocation.

"Good, yes.  Mostly relaxing, it's been..." and he exchanged looks with Sherlock, who did that _thing_ with his mouth, and licked his lips, mischievous. "... nice."

"Great, then you can certainly find time to come for dinner tonight."  There was a muted other voice.  "Clara and I won't take no for an answer.

Two pairs of blue eyes met overtop the mobile, silent, questioning.  Sherlock arched an eyebrow at John, shrugging with a slight gleam in his eye, considering what John was going to do, which option he would choose.  Prior to Sherlock returning last evening, he had planned on going to Harry's, stop being a recluse, and get on with things.  Now, with a limited time with Sherlock until he left again, he didn't particularly feel the same way.  John spoke, "Absolutely, I can come for a little while.  Sounds very nice.  What can I carry in?"

"Nothing.  Just show up."

"Perfect.  See you in thirty."

When John disconnected the call, it was with pounding heart just at the thought of leaving the flat, of the dichotomy of what his life was going to be like.  And he embraced it.  "You know I'd rather..." he began.

Sherlock held up a hand.  "I know, it's the right thing.  Your mobile, please."

A few minutes later, Sherlock had downloaded and installed the encrypted messaging application that would allow John to communicate with whatever mobile device Sherlock was able to use.  Since he'd been off the radar, he'd explained that he'd changed numbers regularly due to lost or damaged devices, and this service would allow him to securely communicate through a discreet service for that very reason.  John would use the same number, enter a unique passcode, which would then allow Sherlock to receive the message at whatever number he was using at the time.  

Communication, the ability to somewhat reliably and in a timely manner, to stay in touch, was John's first condition.

If John's mobile were ever compromised, there would be no chance that Sherlock would be endangered or trackable through the number.  It went nowhere without the passcode.  When John received the phone back, the only new contact that had been added was under 'Customer Service'.  Harmless enough, and no other identifying feature.  Unless either of them specifically saved a message, it would automatically delete twenty four hours after being read, and once read, it required passcode entry to access it again.

 **wish you could join me tonight.** John hit send, entered the code, waited.  While the men sat there, quietly, both were considering that time was passing, and that eventually, the messages were going to be their primary connection.  And John was already anticipating the night ahead of them, and then tomorrow.  He would savor every moment.

Sherlock's mobile, on silent, was suddenly held by active fingers again, and John stared at his own blank screen.

 **I will be waiting here for you to return. $.**  It was, of course, unsigned for safety.  John understood the money symbol immediately, however.  An S overstricken with a piece of an H.  Perfect.

John smiled over his anxiety as he slid into his coat, "I'll try to bring you takeaway.  Harry's a half decent cook."

"Bring Clara's dessert, more importantly."

"You might want to take a kip," John advised quietly, his hand on the doorknob.  "I have little intention of wasting what time we have left sleeping."  Sherlock was standing, as well, close by.

"See, haven't I always said that sleeping is a complete and total waste of time?"

"Not to be confused with being in bed, however."

"I'll be there when you get back."

John ran a hand down Sherlock's body, neck to nipple to belt to zipper, laying claim with strong fingers the already interested erection beneath.  "Don't start without me."

"Not promising that.  Don't be too late."

John was barely down the block when his mobile came to life again.   **There are no mould cultures in your kitchen, you're pathetically clean.  And where do you keep the matches now?  $**

**I'll leave the mould experimentation to you.  And if you take one puff of a cigarette, I will know.  Don't mess with me.**

++

Dinner at Harry's was strangely a very nice evening.  A few neighbors had come, one of Harry's co-workers, and a few of Clara's family were also there.  Conversation over dinner was safe, distant, light.  John stepped out back on the patio at one point afterward, breathing quiet air as some of Clara's family was inside opening gifts.  Harry came out to join him.

"You seem better."

John reminded himself, obviously, to consider all options.  "I guess.  It's hard, you know?"

"I didn't think you were going to come."

"I didn't really want to, nothing personal," he said with a slight purse of his lips.  "I should probably tell you, though,"

Harry halted him, a hand on his arm in alarm.

"No, no, nothing bad.  I just," John shrugged, let the words hang a moment, "I think I'm going to move."  Harry was oddly quiet, for all her opinions and boisterous conversation typically, she seemed to know John needed this.  "Too many memories."

A sigh came from Harry, and John watched her eyes locate and stay fixed on Clara.  "You loved him.  Of course, we all knew.  And Johnny, moving out should probably have happened long ago.  It's a good thing."  

"Not good, exactly.  But time."  She nodded at John's clarification.  

There was loud crazy laughing inside, someone clearly had said something that had proved raucously entertaining.  "I can't imagine not having her..."

He watched Harry go back inside and be caught up in the levity of the evening, and John figured he'd made enough of an appearance, started making plans to head home.  Both Clara and Harry, as John hugged them happy Christmas and said goodbye, made sure he was armed with leftovers, a bag to carry it in, and more of a hug than he'd anticipated.  John was walking home before he pulled out his mobile to find a cluster of text messages from Sherlock.

**Found the matches.  Trying to find a store that can deliver cigarettes. $**

**Everything's bloody closed, you would think it's a holiday or something. $**

**Hope you're having a good time.  Sorry I couldn't join you. $**

**If you keep ignoring me, I just _may_ start without you. $**

**You there? $**

Picking up the pace, he considered how to answer, wondered if Sherlock actually had the harder evening without him, and John was grateful for the crowd of distracting people, even though he'd rather have been back on Baker Street.

**Leaving Sis's now.**

**No smoking in the flat.  Yes, another rule.**

**Start without me:  go into the bedroom, take off your clothes.  Think hard thoughts, I'll be there in less than 5 min.**

**I should have mentioned that my brother can view these. $**

John almost felt queasy.  Sherlock had assured him that Mycroft would figure it out when he saw them together anyway.  Oh well.  The suspicious side of him wondered if Sherlock had left that detail out deliberately.  He picked up the pace, trying to assure himself that he really didn't bloody care.  One more text, then.

**Sorry, wrong number.**

++

Sherlock was, as directed, waiting for him in the bedroom, lounging comfortably in the middle of the large bed without a stitch on that long body.  There was the acrid smell of cigarette smoke in the room, an ashtray close at hand, and a defiant look in Sherlock's eyes.  John paused just inside the bedroom door, still wearing his coat.  He crossed to the window, opened it, picked up the ashtray, and raised an irritated eyebrow at the naked man.  "Go brush your teeth."  Shrugging out of his coat, he disposed of the ashtray, grabbed utensils from the kitchen, then waited outside the loo until Sherlock had done as requested.  "Where'd you get the cigarette?"

"Borrowed it from Mrs. Hudson's flat, from her stash.  She is out of town."

"At her sisters.  And _borrowed_ my arse.  Heaven help us all if you ever decided to really act irresponsibly.  You are difficult enough on a regular basis."

"Bored, John.  Harmless."

"Cigarettes are not harmless."  He made sure to convey his irritation, even knowing it was mostly for show.  "And stealing is still rather illegal."

He completely ignored both of those comments.  "You're wearing too many clothes."

"Stop complaining," he said, and when Sherlock seemed annoyed at the request, John added, "Please."  He waited until he had Sherlock's full attention as they stood in the bedroom.  "So here's how this is going to work.  Eat."  John offered him both plates, one with the meal, the other with dessert.  Sherlock took Clara's baking, set the rest aside.  John pointed at the bed, and Sherlock sat down looking unsure.

"And?"  John gestured for Sherlock to take a bite, and once he did, he drew close with a gleam in his eye.

John let the grin speak for itself as he eyed Sherlock's skin.  "Enjoy."

"You cannot possibly force me to associate eating with sex.  It's a terrible idea."  John waited until he took another bite, then pressed his face into Sherlock's leg, made sure his intentions were clear.  "I'll aspirate on this, a terrible waste of pie."

"Tell you what, you don't aspirate, and neither will I."  John pulled his jumper off, then leaned up on all fours, suspended over Sherlock, grinning.  And waiting.

"Wait.   _What_?"  Sherlock's eyes were wide.  "So you're not going to...  unless I..."

"I knew you would get it."  John smiled broadly, watched the naked man in the bed snag a small forkful, and John watched pointedly until Sherlock slid the fork into his mouth, exaggerating the pull of the fork out from between his lips.  John mirrored the action on the fork with his own mouth on Sherlock's erection.  Another forkful, another mouthful, and shortly, both mouths were otherwise engaged.  And pleased.  Sherlock's plate was set aside definitely not entirely empty, but John couldn't stop the grin or the comment, as he wiped his chin, meeting Sherlock's still rather amused eyes, "All those years of fussing at you to eat, this was all it took.  Who knew?"

Sherlock rubbed his stomach, considering something else.  "What do I get if I eat dinner too?"

"The average refractory period of a man your age --"

++

The rest of the time Sherlock spent in London, sequestered there in the Baker Street refuge, seemed to fly by.  As was John's plan, neither man spent very much time actually sleeping.  

He ran one short errand while Sherlock researched a lead on his next location, making it a quick one to the chemists, came home with two doses of intra-nasal naloxone.  It was another of John's conditions that Sherlock carry at least one dose of the means to treat opioid overdose on his person as much as possible.  While he hated - _hated_ with every cell of his being - the fact that Sherlock was unashamedly planning to continue dabbling with dangerous substances, he made sure that, as much as he could, Sherlock would have means to buy himself some time, save his life.  He made sure it was easy to use, readily accessible, complete with instructions, and that Sherlock knew to obtain more if he ever needed to use even one dose.  In his pocket was another written prescription for a refill, for Mycroft, and he would show Mycroft how to simply administer it in case it ever fell to him to do so.  Sherlock, actually, was agreeable, but skeptical that Mycroft would ever stoop so low as to actually do it.  John didn't doubt if needed, that Mycroft would use it and then never let either of them forget their indebtedness to him.  The cad.  But he didn't care, as long as he'd gotten his way in this.

They ate (some), napped (out of necessity), explored and tasted and became familiar with each others skin and nerve endings and nuances of the newly awakened sexual side of their relationship.  It was far too early for either of them to have tried everything, every position, just out of time and the physical impossibility of an endless supply of sexual stamina.  But surprisingly to John, Sherlock had actually taken to everything he'd been on either the receiving or the giving ends, and seemed fascinated and not in a rush at what remained to be discovered.  Kissing was relatively new to him, and nipple play seemed to be something he was fascinated by, but he particularly loved the sounds that either or both of them made.  "Let me hear you," he'd said once as John approached orgasm;  John realised he was going to have to work at overcoming his propensity for quietness.  Whether it was secondary to being rather refined, or from the necessity of discretion in the army, or just something innately _John_ , he had a hard time with that.

Mycroft arrived promptly as expected, and the all-knowing snide smirk he was wearing immediately set Sherlock on edge.  "Not a word, Mycroft.  Not one."  And no words were actually necessary as he then turned an omniscient gaze on John as if he could tell what they'd just been doing by the number of hairs out of place.  John didn't care overmuch except for the fact that Sherlock was annoyed by it.

The meeting with Mycroft gave him mostly a pounding headache between the two brothers fussing at each other, and him fussing at both of them as they failed to consider his vested interest, even newly acquired, in the circumstances.  Each lead that had been previously investigated was carefully considered for completeness and for unconsidered avenues of connection.  The wall there on Baker Street remained empty, as Sherlock had recently gone digital with his musings and evidence.   No data available had been overlooked, and Sherlock's next point of investigation was going to begin in Germany.  

The biggest part of John's role, primarily, was to allow contact to be made by Moriarty's connection, to ensure Sherlock remained dead and buried.  He would need to allow the relationship to progress quickly, and to be uber-alert for any information, even if it seemed random, casual, or perhaps had been dropped deliberately as a ruse, or a mole.  His primary contact would of course be Mycroft, and he was given a secure phone line that he was to call, again issue a passcode, but messaging with Sherlock was going to be discouraged if there was information to be relayed.  They would consider every message breachable and all three agreed that proceeding with caution was best.  Mycroft reminded them both that disclosure of locations or any other protected information via text was unacceptable.  As was, he said with a frightening smirk, sexually charged innuendo.

Mycroft ended the meeting once the agenda had been covered, short and to the point.  John took that moment to verbally demo the naloxone, explain all that was needed, and handed over the prescription to Mycroft, the syringes to Sherlock.  Mycroft actually looked impressed at the concept as he pocketed the paper.  He nodded at John, and told Sherlock he had an hour until the car would be out front.  Once the flat was quiet, Sherlock simply drew John along with him to the couch, and they settled into the cushions, touching, and loathe to move apart.  The physical contact would have to last them until they were together again.  The embrace was warm, secure, and marked with the knowledge that they were both setting off in different directions, neither of which would be easy.

"It may be a while before we have this opportunity again."  John nodded, hearing the sadness in tone from Sherlock.  The anticipation of actually saying goodbye was casting quite a pall on the remaining hour, of course.  "Is there anything you will regret not saying to me in person when you had the chance?"  Sherlock's arms tightened a bit, uncertain, and John tipped his head back enough to see Sherlock's sincerity.  "Speak now...?"

"Curious, mostly.  I understand my meeting someone, getting close to someone is... well, crucial."  He hesitated, hating the need to ask.  "How about you?  Are you likely to meet someone, that you'll need to ..."

"I think you know I am reluctant to actually get involved with _anyone_."

"No one will have you like I will," John quipped.

"There is that," he said along with a smile.  "It may be necessary, at some point, to turn on some degree of charm in order to get what I need.  And you've seen me do that for a case, or whatever.  But no, John," he said, easing their bodies together again, close on the couch, "I do not plan on meeting anyone, getting close to anyone.  To the best of my ability, I will wait for you."

The words, meant to lessen John's insecurity, actually brought about some additional sadness and fears - John, for the part he would play, would not be able to say anything remotely true along those lines.

They were still in the same embrace when the car pulled up out in front of the flat.  A few quiet words, two spoken promises, a kiss to seal them.  And Sherlock was gone.

++

Texts exchanged a week later:

**New employee today**

**Do tell. $**

**Cute.  Flirty.  I need zofran.**

**Zofran? $**

**Medicine for nausea.**

**So sexy when you speak medical. $**

**I think the game is on.**

**Obviously.  Stay the course.  $**

++

A few days later:

**Heading out of country tomorrow.  Cell contact will be sporadic. Don't panic. $**

**I won't. Godspeed.  I have ... plans tomorrow evening.**

When it was quiet after several hours, John texted again.

**You prefer radio silence?**

**Truthfully yes, but I do need to hear about it.  Cautiously, be gentle with me. $**

**If it brings you home sooner...**

**Don't _fall_.  $**

**Not funny coming from you.  Just, no.**

**You know what I mean. $**

**Yes.  I got a list of flats from umbrella-man.**

**He'd been given my criteria. $**

**I still don't want to leave 221.**

**Yeah, well, don't bring anyone else over, it's reserved for you and me. $**

**Along with my <3.**

**What does you being less than three have to do with it? $**

**Berk.  Rotate mobile 90 degrees counter-clockwise.**

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Mycroft's connections to the rescue with the secure messaging system, however, don't look too closely for flaws in my plot device.
> 
> Intranasal naloxone (narcan) is an approved spray medication to stop or reverse the effects of an opioid overdose (heroin, oxycodone, hydrocodone, morphine, etc). It is over the counter and available without a prescription in very limited areas. It is not a substitute for good medical care, but should be useful to allow for the time required for emergency access for a patient who is somnolent or unresponsive.


	4. We are Ready to Begin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Enter: Mary.

Text messages were just no longer enough.  John had a love/hate relationship with his mobile at present.  His last text from Sherlock had been over ten days previously, and when John had made contact with Mycroft, there had been only a snippy comment reminding John that indeed Sherlock was working and unavailable at present.  John had hung up feeling needy and duly chastised for wanting information.  He slept with the mobile under his pillow and Mary on the other side of the bed, hoping the one would not bother him during the night and that the other would most definitely awaken him.  Both were silent, and he was thankful on one hand and disappointed on the other.  The double-minded lifestyle was, at times, exhausting.  Every day, at least, he found himself wishing and hoping that this season of their lives would be a shortened one.

++

**Another of John's conditions: occasional weekend getaway, and I agree, it's time. Get rid of her, or send him somewhere, it matters not. $**

Mycroft viewed the text, deleted it, disgusted.  He'd warned him about sentiment.  This was going to be problematic, but he knew that unless he humoured him, it was only going to get worse.  And a sloppy, distracted Sherlock was likely to make possibly lethal mistakes.  Bloody hell.

++

A few days later at the clinic, as the staff met first thing in the morning as per their typical routine, there was a presentation made for a two-day conference, in two weeks time, to be held at a retreat location a few hours away.  A few of the staff, one of the more senior partners would be able to attend, and Mary approached John after the meeting ended.

"Sarah's asked me to go, as the new kid on the block," she told him, brushing an arm close to his in entreaty.  She smiled warmly into his face, leaning close without touching.  They hadn't been hiding their relationship, but both were aware at all times of the work versus non-work behaviours.  "Come with?"

John shrugged, wheels turning, and he carefully agreed, telling her, "That would be great, a nice getaway.  We'll work on the details.  Or at least try."  He did not want to travel with her, make memories, or grow closer, except as what was already being required of him.  The smile that beamed at him only tweaked at his guilt for his deception.  By the end of the day, the conference had been filled with office staff who were excitedly making plans - Mary was going; John was not, as he carefully allowed one of the other physicians to participate first, then he volunteered to man the on-call needs of the office that day so that others could attend.  He watched Mary discreetly, sensing that she was slightly disappointed, but that she was still looking forward to doing something different and, after listening to some of the discussions of what some of them were planning (dancing, drinking, attending perhaps only a few of the more interesting sessions offered) he was speculating on whether they had it wrong about Mary or not, as his non-attendance didn't seem to affect her.  

His clinic hours ended before hers did, and so he had a few minutes alone in his new flat before she would be there for supper.  Of the list Mycroft had given him, he liked this one for its cozy charm, limited neighboring walls, and rear access that backed up against a remote part of some gardens.  He'd only been in a few weeks, long enough to settle his meager belongings and hang a few pictures, and to offer Mycroft a key to the back door.  Mycroft had merely looked at it, and John kept his hand extended until Sherlock's brother said quietly that he already was in possession of the key.   _Of course he bloody already had it._

He tried not to be annoyed at the lack of contact so far, he knew the big picture, but it was hard ... just generally.  Mary's company helped in some ways, made it harder in others, although John still had moments when he would have just preferred to be alone.  Mary still had her own flat, but spent the night rather regularly.  They'd been quickly becoming closer, and John considered the unwelcomed necessity of moving in together, and knew it would be an issue soon.  He was looking to move this along but wanted confirmation before doing so.  They discussed Sherlock at frequent intervals, sometimes he brought it up, or at least as often, she did.  If she was digging for information, it was not something she did with any assertiveness, and if in fact she was the manipulative agent she was supposed to be, John realised more than once, she was about as skilled a liar as he'd ever encountered.  He enjoyed recounting the stories, and she seemed to enjoy listening, although he was careful to moderate his occasionally raw emotion from coming across too heavily as they talked.  And he had not mentioned or shown her the blog.  He barely read it himself, except for trolling occasionally for activity or comments.

There was still silence from the other end of the mobile, and the days until the conference ticked down.  Mary did seem truly disappointed that John hadn't been able to sign up, though she understood the medical profession's unforgiveness in scheduling.  He alluded, as they hugged goodbye the morning she was to leave, that perhaps after the seminar, that they could discuss the fact keeping two flats might be foolish.  There was a softening in her eyes as she smiled, and her hand trickled down his body in promise of a good romp once she returned when the conference was completed.  It had been a while, and, provided John didn't think too much about it and kept his head in the game, he enjoyed the physical component of their relationship.  "I'll call you," she said, softly promising.

He nodded, "Please do."  He brushed his hand over the short blond hair, fondly, thinking himself that truly he was a terrible person for his unscrupulous behaviour.

Clinic hours ended, and John hurried his steps toward home.  Looking forward to mostly a weekend on his own, barring being called in for emergencies or to handle the medical questions and provide triage over the phone, he had a few things in mind.  He would contact Mycroft again, ask for more information, explain the frustration, and berate him for his terrible assistance.  He would request for a landline or phone number so they could actually talk, live, with actual spoken words as opposed to text message.  God, to hear his voice again would be... wonderful.  Ah, home.  There was still, he hoped, takeaway in the icebox, and John snagged the post on his way through the door.

Only to find Sherlock in the flat, seated in the dark room, face illuminated only by his mobile.

He looked up when John flicked on the lamp, and John could see the fatigue written all across his face, in the depths of tired eyes.  "She might as well just move in.  Her toothbrush is here, and a few changes of clothes.  And her blasted shampoo, John.  Peach vanilla shampoo!  It's horrid."

John stood stock still, considering how to react to that, when Sherlock continued, "She buys skimmed milk.  Skimmed!  Might as well drink white water."  His affect seemed a bit odd.  Still probably never sleeping, John mused.  "You hate skimmed milk!"

John let his coat slide off, his bag set against the wall inside the door.  There was a red rim under Sherlock's eyes, and in that instant, John knew.  Hated it.  Seethed.  He barely kept his tongue, knowing that anything he said would only reveal how upset he was.  Sherlock set the mobile aside, leaned his head back.  He hadn't shaved in a few days, apparently, and there was stubble and a roughness about him.  Eyes closed, he muttered, "She has you, and I don't.  The worst, she has staked her claim on you with her tampons in the loo, her pink sweater on the chair, and the lipstick on the mug in the sink. _Pink lipstick on your RAMC mug!"_

The physician switch was fully activated then as John could see Sherlock's carotid bounding in his neck, too fast, entirely too fast.  Still silent, not trusting his speech center, he eased down on the coffee table at Sherlock's knee.  His fingers found Sherlock's radial pulse, and as he drew Sherlock's arm toward him, that was when he saw the blood.  Mostly stiff and dried, some fresh.

"Good god, what happened!?"

The story came out in drips and drabs of a chase a few days previously, a knife, a brief stumble in a stairwell, and a quick, fortunate evasion of a deeply penetrating blade strike.  He wanted to get to London, and had gotten careless, he confessed, and was angry at himself that he'd lost the man and with him, the opportunity to obtain more information.  With a bit of fussing (most of it John's) and quite a lot of complaining (all of that Sherlock's), they soon were able to get to John's bed.  Quick medical fingers removed clothing enough to see, and John was relieved to find that the wound had started to heal, but without dressing and care, kept reopening to ooze, the bleeding even presently soaking into Sherlock's shirt and onto the towel John had grabbed before laying the man down.

"It was only two, John.  Just two."

"What are you on about?"

"The list.  It's only two."  John was still puzzled as he watched Sherlock's long fingers search his shirt pocket, withdraw a small spiral paper notebook, and when Sherlock held it out, John recognised a list of dates, drug names.  He took it from Sherlock's hand, flung it harshly in the direction of the door, wishing it had been made of crystal and had shattered satisfyingly against the wall.  "Two _percocet_ , John.  And I need that back."

"Shutthefuckup."  He needed his medical bag.  "Stay."  Percocet, empty stomach, blood loss probably, inattentiveness to taking care of himself - this was definitely not John's choice on the various ways Sherlock still needed him.  He worried that one day, his luck would run out.

It was an indication of how lousy Sherlock was feeling that he obeyed.

The wound, sliced open just through the skin, cleaned up well after a bit of scrubbing that had Sherlock alternating between holding his breath and biting his lip at the degree of pain.  It had started healing enough that stitches weren't specifically necessary, and would have required opening what healing had already started, to do a good job.  He settled on steri-strips, antibiotic ointment, and a gauze dressing secured with tape, then gathered a few things including his mobile and some reheated food to share, but when he returned, Sherlock was already almost dozing.  John pulled on pyjamas, took a few bites, and leaned against the headboard to let the sudden, unexpected visit catch up with him.

The wound - healing up okay so far, hopefully wouldn't become infected - but brought up so many unanswered questions, and John actually despaired of ever finding out exactly where he'd been and what had transpired.  Which was a fair trade-off, he thought, because he didn't particularly want to share everything about where his relationship with Mary was at the present time, either.  It was bad enough, he thought, watching Sherlock's restlessness settle into a more restorative sleep stage, that he was laying on Mary's side of the bed.  And he probably knew it, too.

There was a restless energy, John recognised, within him as he sat, Sherlock dozing.  He didn't want to leave the room and squander precious minutes of togetherness or if Sherlock needed something.  He straightened up, watched Sherlock with a clinical eye, then settled on a book he'd been reading, mindless entertainment, and just waited.  The evening wore on, Mary texted to say they had all arrived safely and were on their way to grab dinner.  John responded that he was likely going to bed early, not a complete untruth, and they would catch up tomorrow.

She texted back a sweet something or other, wish you were here, talk soon, see you in a few days, and John texted back a smiley face, set the mobile aside.  When John glanced over at the unmoving man, Sherlock's eyes were open, and he was watching with intuitive eyes.

"Mary?"  John nodded, feeling dirty and guilty and _caught_.  "Her side of the bed I'm on, isn't it?" and he tipped his nose down toward the scent on the pillow, made a small grimace of displeasure.

John grabbed the edge of the pillow, pulled it rather rudely out from under Sherlock's head, put it behind his own head.  It left Sherlock without one, until he located a throw pillow, tucked it behind him.  "Had I known you were coming, I would have ... taken care of it."

There was a bit of a scowl at the barb directed at him, so he explained, "I wasn't sure it was happening.  And I didn't want to disappoint you in case I couldn't make it."  He stretched, made a face as his side pained him.  "Almost didn't."

John shrugged, annoyed even as he tried to understand.  "Please don't keep things from me."

"As I am able, I will try," he said, and made an attempt to sit up too quickly only to find himself dizzy.  John resisted every urge in his body to sit up, grab his arms as he wobbled, ask if he was alright and what he needed.  "When does she get back?"

"Day after tomorrow, late."

"What are the odds she might return early?"

"Almost none, she caught a ride with others from the office."  Sherlock had a bit more color, and John stretched out a hand to rub along his shoulder.  "You bring anything with you?"

"Backpack's out in the other room.  Barest necessities.  I'd leave my toothbrush but I think three by the sink might be obvious."  

"Thought you might be more comfortable out of those," he brushed at his clothing.  "And with a shave."

"Sounds heavenly.  But first, can I finish that?" and he looked pointedly at John's plate.

Hungry, now that was a switch, John considered as he handed it over.  And so Sherlock picked at the food while John talked about the flat, the clinic, a few of the interesting patients, the quirkiness of the neighbours with whom he shared common walls or ceilings.  When the first pause in conversation happened, John seemed to mentally scramble for something to fill the silence, until Sherlock held up a hand between bites.

"You can talk about her, you know."  John looked away, initially.  "I'm well aware of certain facts about what's going on."

"I don't want to."  John was confident of that, was willing to stand his ground.  "Not here, not in bed, not like this.  Not in the flat.  I'm cheating on both of you, technically, and it's a little overwhelming."

"Okay, but I do need to know if you think she suspects anything."

"Don't think so.  Not at all."  John took the plate from Sherlock as he handed it over.  "If you're done, I can help you into the shower."  He looked down at the dressing to assure it was still clean and dry.  "The steri-strips can get wet, I'll just redress it when you're out."  He couldn't stop himself from reaching out to touch, starting at his collar to the angle of his jaw to the curls over his ear.  "Or I can get in with you and help, your call."

"Fooling around in the shower sounds slippery and dangerous."

"It's also a bit crowded and there's never enough showerhead spray to cover two people.  One is always too cool out of the water."

"I feel a bit stronger having eaten.  Maybe I'll manage on my own."

"I'll come keep you company then, just in case."  John crossed to the closet, dug into a box at the back, pulled out Sherlock's dressing gown, the blue one, their favorite, brought along to the flat out of nostalgia.  He watched Sherlock gather his strength, followed him into the bathroom, helped him where he could after removing the bandage.  "I'm going to grab a glass of wine, do you want one?"

"What kind of a doctor are you?"  Sherlock was just stepping into the shower, paused to ask.  "I would hope you don't routinely recommend alcohol and percocet to most of your patients."

"Maybe I want you at my mercy after the hot-water induced vasodilation."

"I would think hypotension and an erection are a bit at odds with each other?"

"Unless properly motivated," John muttered as the shower door closed.  He returned with a glass of pinot noir, perched on the closed lidded toilet, enjoying what he could see through the glass.  Thin, but not as bad as he'd been when they first met, tired, certainly.  Injured, also not unusual, he thought wryly.  It was a quick shower using John's soap and shampoo, and once he'd stepped out wrapped in a towel, John moved so Sherlock could sit down.  He looked knackered, and John eyed the electric razor even as Sherlock noticed.  

"Sure, go ahead."

"Electric won't work now, your face is too damp."

"Use a blade then."

"Let me chug this wine first, it'll help my accuracy in slicing open your trachea."

"I've never seen your hands shake, and they're not about to start now."  He tipped his head back, eyes closed, waiting.  "Go ahead, John, seriously, if it's bothering you.  I don't particularly care right now."

"I do prefer you clean shaven, but..."

"Then go ahead."  Sherlock angled himself, leaned back against the wall, shut his eyes in exhaustion.  "Think of it as foreplay."

"You look like a limp noodle, though."  

"Shut it.  That was a low blow."

"A large limp noodle, anyway."  John pulled out a blade, shaving cream, tossed a towel over Sherlock's shoulder as he sat.  A bit of warm water, a few rinses, and some working in silence soon set Sherlock's face back to what John was used to seeing.  He set supplies aside, redressed his side once it was completely dry, and took Sherlock by the hand.  "Come, bed."

"See?  Foreplay."

"You are in no shape for anything right now other than a few hours of sleep."

They stepped back into the bedroom, and John eased him into the upholstered chair.  "Wait, while I..." and he quickly stripped the bed, bundling the sheets to replace them later, to keep everything above suspicion with Mary.  He tucked in fresh ones, then let Sherlock work his tall and tired frame onto the mattress, where he sprawled carefully favouring his side.  "I'll be right there," he said, and went to double check the door locks, turn out the rest of the lights, gather a bottle of water for Sherlock, and then he returned.  Sherlock's bag, he brought along, and in short order he had snuggled into bed alongside the man he'd missed so much for such a long time.

John eased into the corner of Sherlock's armpit, tucking a leg between Sherlock's thighs and letting his arm drape across the other chest.  Sherlock eased his hand toward John's waistband until John caught it.  "No, it's ok.  Not tonight."

"It's fine, John, if you want.  I can just lay here while you..."

"That sounds so sexy and appealing.  Thanks but no thanks."  John pulled the covers up, brushing Sherlock's hand away from where it had been headed before any damage was done.  Think about the queen, the pollution in the Thames, wiring schematics for the electrical work he'd talked about at the surgery, even think about the list from Sherlock's pocket, that was rather deflating.  "This is all I want.  You, here, the two of us, breathing, enjoying.  This is fine."  John let his own warm hand wander only as far as Sherlock's ribs, stopped, feeling the precordial lift, the muscles of respiration, the warmth next to him.  "Stay?"

And Sherlock nodded, his body finally relaxing.  John brought his hand up then to Sherlock's face, savouring the feeling of smooth skin now, and then feeling the smile forming under his fingers, and then Sherlock's head turn to nuzzle his lips against John's fingertips.  "Of course I'll stay."

It had been so new when they were last together, and such a gap between visits, that John fought to stay awake for a while, listening to the rhythm of Sherlock's heart under his ear.  The cadence of his chest rising, falling as lungs expanded, finally slowed, relaxed, and there was just the faintest twitch as Sherlock's obviously exhausted body gave up and he slept.  The tee shirt, soft under John's cheek, gave John a bit of freedom as he slid his hand lightly, slowly, across his body, wrapping it just barely over the edge of the bandage.  Beneath his leg, which had draped over Sherlock's thigh, he felt the faintest muscle tremor as the rest of Sherlock's body caught up in the early stage of sleep.  Behind his back, the arm twitched, pulled John closer, relaxed, and then was still.

John's mind considered his mobile, silent, the flat, Mycroft's knowledge, obviously, of the details required to set up this weekend visit.  He exhaled, forcing his shoulders to relax as he settled easily against the body in the bed.  He and Mary rarely touched, never fell asleep like this - he didn't like anything about it with her, but _this_?  This was security and comfort and intimate.  Finally, his mind disengaged as Sherlock's pulse rate pounded slow and even against his ear, and he, too, fell asleep.

Only to awaken, startled, by a thrashing body up against him.  He was thrust aside as Sherlock sat bolt upright, arms flailing, a vicious yell that sounded much like _'no'_ , and either a panicked fight or an aggressive attack was going on - John wasn't sure.  His own heart pounding, he let Sherlock make a rapid attempt to sort himself out as he stood next to the bed, eyes wide, hair wild.  Once he was sure Sherlock was truly awake, he spoke.  "Sherlock."

No response, only panting respirations as he stood, arms frozen in a defensive posture.

"Sherlock, you're okay."  Still quiet.  "You're _safe_."

"No, neither of us is safe."  The voice was flat and defeated.  "Where is your gun?" 

"Closet.  It can stay right where it is."  Switching on the light, John carefully took stock of Sherlock's body language, and tossed back the duvet.  "I'm getting up, and then we'll check your bandage."  John was pretty sure it should have started bleeding with all that lunging going on.

Sherlock looked down at his side, startled, and brought his hand up alongside his body.  "Fine.  Why wouldn't that be fine?"

"Because you're upset."  John let his hand brush lightly over Sherlock's upper arm, squeezing in what was meant to be reassuringly as he angled Sherlock's frame so the light reached the dressing.  "This is bleeding some, and I want to see it.  Let's take this out to the other room, watch crap telly."  

Sherlock looked still not quite himself, but nodded.  "I want tea."  Ah, the demands were beginning, probably a good sign.

"I can perhaps enlighten you, again, about the proper use of the words please and thank you while we wait for the kettle to boil."

"Don't bother, I'll just delete it."  And the look in his eyes, and a one-sided smirk, now gave John slightly more assurance that he was recovering from whatever had frightened him, and he well recognised PTSD.  He wondered when this was all over if they would take turns having nightmares, flashbacks, and emotionally traumatic moments.

It wasn't long before they were set up on the couch in the other room, tea nearby, and Sherlock reclining on the couch, stretched out over John's lap.  For his part, John kept a hand pressed over the newly changed bandage that had pulled the wound edges apart again.  If that recent flurry of activity was typical, it was no wonder it kept opening, oozing, and was slow to heal.  The TV droned on, white noise, in the background.  John had brought over biscuits, as well, and they mostly talked about the current leads, or non-leads, that Sherlock was following.  He asked about Mary, after obtaining permission from John to discuss her - specifics about her demeanor, conversations, plans for the future, and even her friends.  He asked if John might be able to search her mobile for contacts, messages, recent searches, to which John thought he probably could.

"When is she moving in?"

"Soon, I suppose.  Is there any credible reason to wait?"

"Not credible, just selfish."  John eased up the pressure he was holding over his laceration, peeked barely under the top layer of the dressing, found it dry and intact, slid his hand back, fingers pressing lightly, then sliding across a flat belly.  "Is diverting blood flow away from an injured area standard protocol for you?"  Sherlock, smiling at John's feigned shocked expression, edged up on an elbow to reach John's face, pressing warm lips, firm, heated, against his own.  They tasted jointly of tea.

"You're my only patient I would ever do this with."  Sherlock arched his back into John's touch.  "You okay staying out here?"  John had very easy access to Sherlock's waist, lower, and slid his hand over Sherlock's groin.

"For now."  He pushed up against John's hand, and shortly John slid his hand inside the pyjamas as anticipated.  "But next time, the bedroom.  I want my presence in there to be stronger in your mind than hers is."

"It already is."  John pushed Sherlock into a seated position so he could scoot off the couch from underneath him, then let him return to laying down.  "Don't overdo it, with your side."

"Like I said, diverted blood flow, no problem."

John grabbed Sherlock's clothing, poked at him until he raised his hips so they could be removed, and began a lazy, gentle exploration with his mouth and hand over his erection.  John knew he was well aroused when he felt Sherlock's hand come back behind his head, steadying and guiding, encouraging John's already rather skilled depth of his mouth.  Sherlock's breathing changed abruptly, and his stomach tightened along with the fingers in John's hair tensing, and John managed to swallow only the first bit before gagging.

Sherlock's ragged "sorry" apology would have been better received had he not let a chuckle come out of his mouth immediately after, and John could only shake his head as he wiped his mouth on a corner of Sherlock's tee shirt.

"Is it possible to taste percocet?" he complained, then reaching for the mostly cooled tea.

"There would need to be a randomised controlled trial, and a control group, and a likert scale..." Sherlock started ticking items off on his fingers until John groaned.  "And, John, how many _samples_ have you already tasted, anyway?"

"Shut up.  That, actually, might have been the final sample.  For a little while anyway."

"I'll bring pineapple juice next time."

"Pretty sure that's a myth, anyway,"

"Adding it to the research study."  His hand reached for John's waist, then, and he drew John alongside him, kneeling, so that he could easily turn his head and swallow the length into his mouth.  "I'll teach you the right way."

"Never had any complaints before."

"No?  I would think the gagging isn't all that appreciated."

"I think it's complimentary, actually, for either the length or the volume of ..."

Sherlock, to his credit, neither gagged nor dribbled when John's orgasm hit.  They finally ran out of room on the couch, deciding they'd had enough of trying, so they closed up the flat again, relocated to the bedroom.  They settled rather sedately into each others arms, adjusting pillows and limbs as they staked their various claims on mattress property.  And sleep overtook them both, finally, until John's mobile sounded the next morning.  And so his on-call phone triage began, with Sherlock snuggled next to him as periodically through the day, he needed to discuss various patient's symptoms, fevers, GI distress, and sore throats.

It was absolutely heaven.

++

When Mary made contact later in the afternoon, John was ready with some news, a lie simply to buy he and Sherlock another evening.

**Woke up with conjunctivitis.  Not happy.  I'm pretty germaphobic about handwashing.  Damn kid yesterday.**

**I know a good doc, if you need an RX.  BTW, the conference has been fantastic. -m**

**Glad to hear.  Thinking I might be out on Monday, too, to be safe.  Both eyes.**

**I guess I'll see you at work Tuesday then? -m**

**Absolutely.  Still have to chat about the two flats, if you're ok with that.**

**More than ok.  Wish you were here. -m**

**Me too.  Minus the eye situation**

**True. Touch base tomorrow? -m**

 At that point, Sherlock suggested turning the screws a bit.   **Or later tonight?  Missing you.**

**I think we're headed out to take in a show.  Might be late. -m**

**Tomorrow's fine, then.** **Safe trip home**

 

They spent as much time as they could together, in bed, in the shower, in the kitchen, and John found it somewhat frustrating that they were truly trapped in the small flat, as Sherlock could not risk being seen, of course.  His wound showed much improvement by the time Mary texted that she'd finally arrived home, was exhausted and would stop by to check on him tomorrow after work, if that was ok.

The very thought made John's mouth dry, considering that she would be back, that this brief respite, this little reality break vacation was over, and he wished a resolution to his double life.  Plans to get Sherlock out of the flat included waiting until dusk settled in, late afternoon, and he would fade into the backyard where Mycroft's car would be waiting just past the tree line to whisk him away.  He was headed to Paris to meet with a contact Mycroft had arranged, someone who knew someone who might have been close to Moriarty's network.  Getting ready to say goodbye again was something they both tried to just avoid.  John looked pointedly at the healing scab on his side, but did not give directions on its care or request that he be careful.  Sherlock did not say anything about Mary's presence as he helped John swap the sheets out again.  They both gathered Sherlock's meager things, set the backpack by the back door.  Neither spoke a word about when they would possibly be together again.

They did, however, find a lengthy embrace at the appointed time that neither wanted to find the strength to back away from first.  John felt Sherlock's wiry arm muscles keep firm tension around him, his chin against John's head, while Sherlock could feel the strength of John's thighs planted firmly and pressing against him.  It was security and cohesion and commitment to what they had.  When minutes later, Sherlock did silently disappear through the back entrance, John sighed a cleansing breath and turned back to the flat to ensure all had been restored to order.  Mary would only be a few hours longer, and the diversion would continue as if Sherlock had never been there.  He dug out a dropper of ocular antibiotic drops, set it on the bedside table, to complete his story.  

Assured the flat was appropriately benign, he drew out his mobile, fired off a text, and as he pressed 'send', his own vibrated with an incoming text as well.  He entered the passcode to read, **Thanks for a great few days.  Do again soon? $**

His text to Sherlock, **Thanks for risking this weekend.  Until next time.**

++

 From across town, Mycroft Holmes saw the exchange, shook his head sadly.  He knew, in part, that the separation that was awaiting his brother and his brother's companion was going to be difficult for all of them.  And it was coming.  On the East Wind.  Soon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the next chapter is mostly written, and the heat is definitely about to be turned up.
> 
> Let me know if I missed something. I forced myself to put the final edits on this chapter because I am totally engrossed in the next one already!
> 
> And yes, let's just say that the tall one gets himself into a heap of trouble. As correctly predicted by 1butterfly_grl1


	5. London Again, the List, and Sherlock in Deep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "I have to go deeper, deeper than I've ever gone before."
> 
> This chapter encompasses a weekend getaway before Sherlock goes off to Serbia, knowing the jail is his destination, his return, the _proposus interruptus_ , and, as predicted by 1butterfly_girl, a scene where Sherlock gets himself into trouble. Deep, deep trouble.
> 
> It is not meant to come along side every scene in Season 3, but I tried to at least mention how the stories might intersperse.
> 
> Careful what you wish for, Mr. Holmes, because unfortunately, now you're in pretty deep...

John flung the door open as the wind whirled outside, the whistling howl practically blowing him into the room and then becoming quiet again as he shut the door forcefully behind him.   The cab had long driven off, having dropped him, as planned, down the block from where he now stood.  He set his pack on the chair inside the cottage, this weekend's location, looking around at the small cluster of rooms.  A realtor would call it 'cozy'  or 'charming' as if small was somehow disdained.  The place, Sherlock had told him, was some family connection to a mostly abandoned hideaway, definitely long unused.  He brushed the mist off his hair and shoulders, slung off his coat.  It was supposed to rain harder, and there was thunder rumbling already, ominously in the distance.  Later, he will wonder how he missed the correlation - brewing storm, trouble on the horizon.

"Crikey! Bit breezy!"  Sherlock had barely looked up from the file he was reading, and John could tell from the first glance at him that a light-hearted, fun weekend, this was not going to be, but a serious turn of events.  This was something he knew had been brewing, Sherlock had tried to warn him, and he gathered his wits about him.  They'd both known this was coming, that the plans they'd set in motion would culminate somewhere.  He slowed down, breathing deeply to off-set the anxiety within his chest. _Oh, god, this is ok, we can do this, we knew it would get harder._

The table was set, John saw, glancing around as Sherlock was not ready to speak yet.  Wine glasses, two place settings, and the oven was on keeping something warm.  Sherlock either had something delivered or had carried in a meal... and John forbade himself to refer to it as a last supper.  No betrayals, no insecurities, no last words.  No reclining at the table, no Judas had been invited.

This weekend had started out as a text message a few weeks ago, kind of a 'save the date' advisement.  An invite had come in the mail ostensibly from the small collection of former Army buddies of John's, but the names had been slightly altered, the location for a guys getaway, with poker and a Bond movie marathon the immediate giveaways to John that this was a ruse.  He watched Bond only with Sherlock because it drove the man nutters, and John had given up gambling completely before entering the military, having seen what destruction it had wrought on his family.  There was a phone number to confirm the reservation, and when John called it, a few clicks occurred until a bloke answered the phone, took his information, and said that this number would be active for the duration.  Probably answered from a minion of Mycrofts, then.

Another text came through a day or so later with an address, date and time, all of which converged to this moment, this location.  John didn't particularly question how complicated the details were.  He was here, Mary had bought it without batting an eyelash, and as far as everyone was concerned, he was beneath the radar for a few days.

John opened the wine on the table to let it breathe, crossed the room to see what Sherlock was working on, and Sherlock smirked, knowing what was coming.  Instead of getting engrossed in the computer screen, he pulled out the now-expected papers from Sherlock's shirt pocket, perusing dates (nothing within the last week - _only a week?_ ) and amounts, then wished he hadn't looked.  Sherlock reached behind him, into a pocket of his pack, pulled out both doses of naloxone so John could see, replaced them.  The website he was reading from was still loading, slow internet connection, and regarded diseases endemic to Eastern Europe.

Wearing more of a serious expression, Sherlock stood, said somewhat distantly, "You hungry?  We can eat anytime."  John knew that was rather a bad sign, that Sherlock was trying to lessen the severity of the situation by agreeing to actually eat, to placate John with comfort food.  Sometimes the old battles (eating, sleeping, risky behaviour) brought pleasant associations, although John mostly didn't fuss about sleeping more, not when they were together anyway.

"Don't patronise me.  I think I'd rather hear the news first."

He blinked, decided to cooperate.  "I'm leaving for Serbia from here, day after tomorrow.  It is likely I will need to infiltrate some of the underground, and most of the known connections are in prison right now."

"You're planning on getting yourself thrown in, then, to a bloody Serbian jail."  Restated, just for clarification of the stupidity.

"Eventually.  I need to locate the right one, first, and ... well, this leg of the journey might take some time."  He shrugged but John could see the tension at his jaw as he considered the unsafe nature of his intended activities.  "They will certainly take my mobile."

"I'm well aware of that, not an idiot despite what you think.  I'm rather more concerned with them taking your _life_."

"Mycroft says he will have a guard on the inside there within a few days, and this is the answer.  This is it, where all becomes clear and we get the information we've been missing."

"And all the parts of the plan that you're hiding?  Now.  Bloody out with all of it."

He set the file, the mobile aside, turned aloof blue eyes his direction, his gaze riveting and steady.  "Might be dangerous."  The edge of his mouth turned up when he spoke, the phrase taking them both back to the night they'd joined forces, the text message.  

The reminder softened John's worried thoughts for a brief time.  John's laughter sounded hollow and ridiculous until Sherlock joined in.  "Aaaaaannnd," John said in a drawn out announcer style voice, "Understatement of the year award goes to Sherlock Holmes."

Over dinner Sherlock explained what he had been able to uncover regarding his potential contact and typical Serbian jail conditions, none of which fell even remotely under the Geneva Convention for treatment of prisoners, and John knew that no war with Serbia had officially been declared, so it was probably not applicable anyway.  He expected a stint in solitary confinement, may have used the word 'rough' instead of beatings or torture, but they both knew what he meant, and his plan on meeting his contact was linked somehow to finding the right connection on the inside, hopefully lying enough to force a brief meeting, then lobby his case.  John reminded himself that this plan - as crazy as it was - was what was going to eventually work out the details of them personally, of getting on with what they wanted, needed, and would get John out of the relationship with Mary once it was determined that she was not part of the active threat.  Or that she was part of it, in which case measures would be implemented, they were still rather unsure.  And safety for all involved being the ultimate objective to this whole ordeal.

He'd searched her mobile, found absolutely nothing that would link her to anything.  Her phone, actually, was harmless, almost impersonal, and raised more questions than it answered.  Sherlock had thought, when John had told him about it, that it was almost too safe, too careful, too benign to be real.  Everyone, he'd claimed, had searches on their mobiles or devices that should have raised at least an eyebrow or two.  When John asked him about his own personal internet searches, Sherlock only smirked, blushed just a bit of color into his cheekbones, and offered to demonstrate what he'd learned.  It was a needed laugh in a heavy, emotional discussion.

Deciding that the news about Sherlock's impending trip was not going to ruin anything they'd planned, what time they had in front of them, after dinner they lit a fire in the fireplace for heat, dragged a few blankets around, and got reacquainted with each others skin as it was illuminated by the firelight.  Both of them could agree that John's legs hairs shone golden in the light but it turned his scarred shoulder a cranberry color, while Sherlock's pale skin shone rosy in the reflections of the flames.

Neither mentioned Mary again that first night.  Neither mentioned that John deferred to Sherlock as to what he wanted, what body part he wanted where, how he wanted to couple with John's body.  John always gave him the choice, looking somehow to make up for what it was costing both of them.  Both knew that John was far from abstinent, but neither mentioned it.  It was all part and parcel of the scope of the plan.  Neither man acknowledged that each of them absolutely hated that part of the plan.

"Your mouth, John," he finally requested and John pushed him over so he was laying on his back.  The warmth from the fireplace had heated the room well, while John's mouth slid, his hand making up the difference, his other fingers pressing behind perineum that drew trembling moans from Sherlock.  And John, in this position, had no trouble maintaining a steady slide, pulled off only enough to swallow before sliding back to engulf Sherlock.  Oversensitive, Sherlock shoved at John until he moved away, and after recovering a few minutes, he reached down his hand to wrap securely around John.  A few minutes of squirming and allowing John room to thrust into his fist, and John added his own sharp inhale followed by a sweet orgasm, too.

They stayed by the fire, moving away only to use the loo or, later the next morning, search for tea or for more food.  Sherlock did receive a few texts from Mycroft, letting him know that travel arrangements were confirmed, that all outstanding details had been arranged.  They talked at length about the wisdom of Mary being pregnant with John's child versus pregnant with someone else's child - because both Holmes brothers were rather convinced it was going to happen one way or the other.  Sherlock refused to give his opinion, to weigh in on the topic at all, no matter how John phrased the questions along those lines, of the feasibility, and desirability, of John possibly returning to Baker Street with a child.  John finally gave up, confessed that yes, he did want a child, wanted it wholly, though, without sharing with its mother.  There would be no split custody, and as long as they could guarantee his final condition, he would... proceed.  They were using condoms for birth control presently, and John didn't think he'd have any trouble ensuring it either broke or otherwise failed.

Early on the last morning, they lay in front the fire, having finally dragged one of the mattresses out into the room to ease the aching joints, Sherlock on his back and John tucked into the nooks and angular crannies of Sherlock's body.  Sherlock's toes tapped out a rhythm under the muscles of John's calf while his fingers traced the raised freckle on John's collarbone.

John's inhale and silent breathy snicker stilled both hands and feet, and Sherlock waited for John to enlighten him.  At the continuing stillness, Sherlock nuzzled at his head, questioning, and asked "What was that about?"

John shook his head, initially.  "You sure you want to know?"  Sherlock was silent, not stooping to clarify; the man almost never changed his mind.  "Okay, then.  Mary did that to me a few times, and I absolutely hated it, her touching me there.  Because you do it all the time, and it seemed like she was, I don't know, _trespassing_."

Sherlock traced the pads of his fingertips along the freckle again, an almost tender assessment.

"I told her it bothered me when she caught me frowning, told her it was a _sensitive area_.  She hasn't done it since."

The arms embracing John tightened, easing him just a bit closer, a secure gesture to be sure, but also one of appreciation and possessiveness.  

An hour or so before when Sherlock needed to leave, by mutual agreement, they returned to the bed.  Making love this time, not knowing how long it would be until they were intimate again, was gently sweet as Sherlock wrapped his long arms around John from behind, sliding into him, plenty of lube, and his hand fisting around John's shaft, _hard_ the way he liked.  He edged his mouth down to John's shoulder as his orgasm approached, sucking hard, clamping just barely with his teeth on the shoulder-blade, wanting to leave a mark.  John was mildly aware of it as it was happening, wanted it in that moment as well.  It wasn't until later when they were in the shower, and Sherlock pointed out, with keen observation as opposed to regret, how dark it was.  John'd had no idea how dark Sherlock had apparently meant for it to get.

"That might have been a bad idea," John said, brushing his fingertips over it as Sherlock grimaced at the obvious mouth markings.  They were in front of the mirror in the loo.  "Might be hard to explain."

"Sleep in a tee shirt?"

"Are you asking if I do, or telling me I should?" John asked.

"I would prefer if you sleep in a coat of armour, but I understand that might not be realistic."

"Gives a new meaning to using protection."

They both stared at the mark again, until John sighed, in part at seeing Sherlock's territorial gaze at it, the smugness he was trying to hide.  John finished drying off, and put on a shirt.  Sherlock looked slightly chagrined.  "Sorry."  John's face clearly replied, 'no, you're not,' and they shared a bit of an eye-rolling smirk.  Sherlock fluffed the towel through his hair again, smiled a sad smile.  "Also sorry I have to leave very soon."

John couldn't seem to find any suitable words, nothing helpful anyway.

"Until next time," Sherlock said from the doorway, looking back into the room they'd already straightened, but mostly steadily and intently at John, committing him to memory, John was sure.

John could only echo the words back at him, hoping it wouldn't be a long wait.  This was reminiscent of when John was deployed to Afghanistan, going off to war and directly into well-known danger.  There was such uncertainty with this goodbye, that John's heart was pounding more than usual as he watched Sherlock disappear in the car sent to collect him.

++

A few days later, John was awakened by the mobile buzzing under his pillow.  Mary rolled toward him, wondering with a few sleepy words if he was ok and to shut the damn phone off for God's sake.  Heart pounding, he brought an arm around her, apologising softly, waited until she'd relaxed to near sleeping again before detangling himself and sliding from the bed.

The first text had been sent over 2 hours ago, but came through with the next.   **just landed. $**

**contact at airport a no show.  find myself in need a ride, can you pick me up? $**

Immediately after that had come another message.

**kidding btw. $**

John knew then that Sherlock had just tipped his hand that he was very nervous and probably experiencing text regret, that moment you click send and wish the message had been worded differently.  He considered the man's atypical show of nervousness, was actually grateful for it and hoped it would make Sherlock less impulsive and reckless.

**You'll be fine, stay the course, you'll figure it out, like always**

John walked to the kitchen for a glass of water, biding time, went back to the loo, ran the water to give the allusion of a good reason to be out of bed so long, and a few minutes later the phone buzzed again.

**im going in wishing we had time for once more just in case $**

The syntax, lack of punctuation were very telling - in a hurry or trying to be discreet.  The sentiment behind it had John wishing there was another way, picturing Sherlock alone, hurt, in danger, and royally ticking people off in his characteristic arrogance.  He fussed at a response and retyped a few times, editing, revising, quick as he could, settled on, **Godspeed.  Be safe. love you (and F off Myc)**

The ellipsis left him in purgatory until, holding his breath, the text came back with a red exclamation point, _message failed_ , and when he attempted it again,  _undeliverable_.

It was going to be a long night.  He finished up in the loo, stared at his reflection.  His eyes were sad, alarmed, and frightened all at the same time.  The presence of Mary across the hall, and her pervasiveness in all of his life right now, reminded him that he had a job to do, too.  He deleted the messages, tried a few deep breaths to enhance relaxation before creeping back into the bedroom and into the bed next to Mary.  Facing away from her and knowing it would be challenging to regain sleep anytime soon, he forced himself not to stiffen when she snuggled up behind him, her warm arm sliding around his waist, her breath against his neck, and her softness pressed into his back.  It felt, all of it,  _wrong_.

++

John grew out a mustache, which started off primarily because he'd found himself thinking of Sherlock while shaving one morning and nicked his upper lip, got fed up with the bloody shaving process (literally) and quit.  The mustache, he made sure, was prominent on CCTV displays, doing everything but winking at the camera.  He was not disappointed when Mycroft sent a text to comment on it, noting only that his brother was unlikely to approve, would likely say that it aged him.

Initially, Mary seemed to like it, seemed amused by it, and stopped fussing at it at night while laying next to him.  They'd meshed flats, giving hers up, combined most of their finances, and grew closer, at least on the outside.  She soon started to drop hints about making some permanent changes to their relationship, about how suited they were, about how well they got on.  At one point while they were out walking, Mary stopped briefly in front of a boutique where jewelry was prominently displayed in the window.  She turned an expectant eye on him, and he smiled elusively, then they both looked away.  John imagined himself in a kettle of water, Mary's hand reaching out to adjust the hob, turning up the heat.

As expected, there was no contact from Sherlock directly, and time passed almost painfully for John, wondering if he was safe, if he was getting closer to the goal, and not a day went by where he didn't look at his life and hope for imminent changes.  One morning his mobile buzzed with an alert from Mycroft that he was leaving in the morning to retrieve his brother, would require a few days to successfully get in, collect him, and get back out of Serbia.  They texted for a few more minutes about the date they would be returning to London, and Mycroft suggested that John be appropriately prepared.  If Sherlock wanted a dramatic re-entry into London, into John's life, well, he would ensure that that was exactly what he would get.  He had dinner reservations at the Landmark, deciding that it would be not only convenient, but posh enough that a good public display of making a spectacle of themselves might as well be noteworthy on that front as well.  He mentioned to Mycroft that he was prepared with an important question for Mary that night in case Sherlock wanted a front row seat.  Mycroft responded only, indeed he will.

++

On the day Sherlock was due to arrive in London, John and Mary were both at the clinic working, seeing patients, smiling as they crossed paths in the hallway.  John had mentioned to her about dinner, that he had something to ask her.  He'd even manage to smile at her a few times as if holding a big secret, which, truth be told, the secret was indeed huge.  Although, he reminded himself before thinking he was pulling one over on her, she might be holding an even bigger secret.  And keeping it well-guarded, too.

A text arrived mid morning.  It was from an unknown number, stating only, **Add me to your customer service contact, we'll be away from the eyes of big bro, $**.  He was just getting ready to see a new patient, which couldn't wait, and he quickly repocketed the mobile.  John had been hoping for it, trying not to be expecting contact of some sort, from Sherlock, so he wasn't surprised at the text, and relieved that Mycroft would now be out of the loop.  The smile that he'd had to work at for Mary now came remarkably easy.

He finally got a few minutes to himself to reply **.  I won't miss customer service surveillance.** **London missed you.**

**Just London?  $**

**Wanker.**

**I'll be at the restaurant tonight.  I'm given to believe that I will be interrupting something? $**

**Yes.  Showtime**

**Shave the mustache, I'm going to hate the way it feels $** John smiled to himself then as he pocketed the mobile on his way in to his next patient.  Mycroft had indeed not only noticed the facial hair, but made sure that Sherlock got to see it, too, obviously.

**I know.  Kissing might have to wait a bit, until your return is no longer a headline item.  And we aren't the center of attention.**

**Not kissing you with that _thing_ anyway. $**

**Not even for science?**

**Nope. $**

In between patients, John spent a few minutes in his office, ostensibly reviewing patient records.   **Are you ok, after your ordeal?**

**Some new scars.  Better now.  You ok? $**

**Mostly. I'm pretty sure she had morning sickness today**

**Yours? $** John stood, knowing he needed to keep moving on his patient load unless he wanted someone to notice the attention he was paying his mobile and the inattention that his patients were receiving.

**Far as I know, as we'd planned. I want this, with you, on Baker street**

**All in good time. $**

 ++

They were seated at a central table, inside the door, in the Landmark, and Mary looked stunning, arriving slightly late wearing a flattering lilac dress and a sparkling smile.  John allowed himself the luxury of feeling nervous and letting some of it show, but the nerves were wholly due to Sherlock's flitting about around the table, masquerading as wait staff before Mary had even shown up.  He was not nervous about the presence of the engagement ring inside his jacket pocket, that was just a prop.

"Surprise me," John had said, glancing at the wine list while his mind was absolutely everywhere else as Mary, descending the staircase, watched him.  He was working with every ounce of his will-power not to look at the server, but the voice he'd recognised instantly, badly faked French accent and all.  All he could see as he looked at the menu was the hand of the waiter - Sherlock's fingers, that had touched him everywhere, held him down, sent messages on the mobile - and the glimpse of his shoe.  Highly polished, the break of the trouser over his shin precisely as Sherlock preferred.  The tone was casual, but the words were charged.   _Surprise me_.  John couldn't let his guard down for even a moment, knowing that in the next few minutes, the game was going to take on a completely new meaning.  Both of them would have to proceed very cautiously

"I'm endeavoring to, sir."  His tone was slightly more formal, less lilt and personality conveyed.

The proposal never quite came out of his mouth, and he was stammering over the words as his peripheral vision saw Sherlock approach the table, hovering, waiting for timing to seem right, and then John stopped and Mary noticed.

It was the mustache mocking his own that nearly was his undoing, and he wanted badly to laugh even as he channeled the anger he'd felt, the hurt and betrayal, when he'd first discovered the truth.

Mary's shock, and her unfinished and unacknowledged statement, "do you have any idea what you've done to 'im?" hung in the air as John rose suddenly, intent on delivering what he was telling his brain was a long overdue punch and perhaps even a good thrashing.  At least they would be touching, part of his mind told him.

Before long, the trio had been asked to leave, and John's anger was surfacing periodically throughout their discussions in the cafe down the street, as he considered that Mary and Sherlock really didn't belong together in the same setting, that they could now somewhat effectively gang up on him.  Seeing them both together, in the same place, was disturbing, was keeping him slightly off-kilter.  The last punch he threw in Sherlock's direction caught his nose rather abruptly, bloodied it rather well, hurt his knuckle, and he chose at that point to end the evening, to summon a cab, get them away from each other.  He wished it was he and Sherlock who would be leaving Mary at the kerb instead of Sherlock being the one standing, alone, watching them drive away together.  And it was in the cab that she delivered the phrase that nearly caused John's heart to shrivel up:  "I like him."  And when John, incredulous, turned shocked eyes to her, she repeated it, "I like him."

_I like him._

Mary tried to soften the hurt and the damage, tried to cajole him into talking about it, sharing his feelings, even went so far as to lead him to bed and offer physical comfort.  She found the blog, reading parts of it aloud that seemed invasive and nearly taunting.  The whole evening made him queasy, and finally he apologized every way to Sunday, and sheepishly admitted that he needed to go for a walk.  Alone, he insisted, when she offered to come along.

He strolled along down a few streets, into a more crowded area, an anonymous man among many who were not paying him any attention.

He was nearly to the tube station when he saw Sherlock's silhouette along the stairwell.  He'd known, somehow, that John was going to be too aggravated to stay in the flat, would manage to shake free, go on a mind-clearing walk, and of course, being Sherlock, he'd deduced where he was likely to walk to.

"This might be dangerous," John offered on sighting him even as he was relieved he was there.  They stood many feet apart, facing each other.

"For whom?"  John only snickered at Sherlock's question.

"Sorry about your bloody face, wasn't actually planning on hitting you quite that hard."

"I'm almost positive, John, that she's part of Moriarty's network."  Not mincing words then.

John took that in, watching Sherlock's sincere expression closely.  "Based on?'

 He tipped his head, eyes crinkling in concentration, and it gave John pause that he was considering his words.  Sherlock rarely did that, so John knew it was bad.

"She told me that she'd bring you 'round."

John's eyes narrowed as well.  "She'll bring me ' _round_?"  He felt his shoulders go back and his chest out without actively meaning to, in a show of authority and dominance.  "That's rich."  He fought against the desire to touch, knew that was not on, thought that to keep moving would be less obvious.  "I probably don't have too much time."

"There's a terror plot on the rise here in London, by the way.  Eyes and ears, John."  John's eyes snapped toward him in curiosity.  "According to Mycroft and my London rats."

"To me, they are often interchangeable."

Sherlock winked, then looked away, briefly.  "One of the reasons I was dragged home."

"Then I'm glad for it.  And I know, well, you'll need to stay focused, but there's more you should hear face to face.  Something that helps just point the fingers back at Mary."  He had always been surprised that despite their height difference, that they kept in step rather well while walking, and they were by silent agreement heading away from the more populated end of London, where even a few blocks made a difference.  "Once she got in the cab with me, you know what she said to me?"  Obviously he didn't, and John spoke again, then, and the words hurt no less repeating them again, "She said, I like him."  He swallowed hard.  "In fact, even after commenting about what your little stunt did to me, she said it twice in the cab."  He let the words sink in, still shocked himself.  "I can't imagine liking anyone who would dare to hurt you that way."

That did actually give Sherlock pause, coming to a halt as they walked until he'd recovered, kept moving.  "I like him," he repeated.  "How can she..."

"Actually _like_ the kind of person who would treat me like you did, to do something like you did to me?"  John put words to it, might as well.  The anger he'd needed to face tonight had brought back the hurt and remaining distrust had re-surfaced, then to have Mary be so completely uncompassionate made John feel isolated, in this by himself, living with a stranger and frustrated that the life he wanted was still unobtainable.  "Boggles the mind, doesn't it?"

Sherlock shook his head, and John couldn't tell if it was guilt or pity or repressed anger on his behalf.  "I'm sorry.  Because I'm already annoyed at her for hurting you, not just for this, but all the stuff that is yet to come."  He stood face to face with John, considering his visage carefully, as if it would be enough to just bask in his presence.  "And it is coming."

"I know."  He was feeling pressured for time, unwilling to raise additional suspicion if possible.  John checked the time again, sighing at the restraints.  "I would like to find someplace secluded.  The mustache is leaving tonight, and you and I haven't even tried it out yet."

"No thanks."  Sherlock had brought his hand up to his own face, touched the bruise and then the split lip John had left on him.  "I don't like it."

"Tough.  I may never do it again in this lifetime, and I'm not missing out."  He turned his steps toward a quiet piece of the street, where an alley jutted out alongside a dumpster and alcove.  "I've also never kissed a man that I've punched a few times, nice scab on your lip, by the way."  Despite Sherlock's earlier negative words, he didn't protest as John drew him quickly into the darkness, flattened him with his body up against the brickwork.  His face felt odd, different against Sherlock's, and they both sampled and tasted and tried different angles and involved tongues until John pulled back.  "Stop, I wasn't looking to go home with ..." and he glanced down helplessly.

"No."  Sherlock almost looked pained.  "So help me, I'll throw a bucket of ice water on you before you go home like that."

 ++

A call from an unidentified number sounded mid afternoon, and John was between patients, but ignored it.  No message was left, and immediately a text sounded then right away. **It's about $.  Answer the damned phone.**

Bloody Mycroft, then.  John knew this could not possibly be a good ring.  Heart pounding, John hesitated in his office, waiting for it.  "John Watson," he said quietly.

"We can't wake him up."  It was Mycroft.

"Did you try --?"

"Yes, but it didn't work."

"Breathing?  Pulse?"

"Yes to both."

"What does he look like?"

"Flushed, can see his heart beating hard and fast in the carotid artery, breathing fast but shallow."

"Call 999."

"I'm sending a car, should arrive momentarily.  In the meantime, John, what....?

John had finished with his current patient, and closed the file.  The secretary rapped on the door, interrupting, "Dr. Watson, an emergency --"

John held a hand over the mobile.  "Yes?"

"You have a personal emergency, your former landlady, has taken seriously ill, being rushed to the hospital."

In his ear, he heard Mycroft say urgently, "Good, the plan, _agree_ , John.  This is your way out of the office immediately."

"Yes?  I need to go to her at once."  He reached for the jump kit of emergency supplies, kept at the ready just for situations that demanded it.

Mycroft, "Get outside, say you'll catch a cab."

"Getting a cab.  Tell Mary I'll ring her?"  There was a nod.  And once he'd stepped foot out of the surgery, he continued, "Probably cocaine then.  The list?"

"No entry today."

"Ice packs if you can.  He needs benzodiazepines, either IV lorazepam or diazepam.  Sedation.  A _hospital_."  A car stopped, the door opened, John climbed in, and it sped off.

"No hospital.  Not yet."  Mycroft certainly sounded stressed.  "I can get what you need," and John heard him demand ice packs, and that he be brought IV supplies and the medications John had said.  He heard something about the entire 'kit' which had John wondering, yet again, at exactly what Mycroft was capable of.

"He needs to be on a heart monitor.  You may not have a choice about the hospital."

"No, _you_ do not have a choice about the hospital, Dr. Watson."  He heard scuffling in the background as other voices apparently were working on carrying out Mycroft's orders.  "What else do you need?"

John's own heart was racing, imagining the worst, the cocaine-induced myocardial infarction, organ damage, hyperthermia, hypoxia.  " _To be there_ , Mycroft.  Immediately."

"You're about ten minutes away.  He's packed in ice now, and apparently doesn't like it much."  The slight amusement in Mycroft's tone infuriated John.

"Shut up.  Just shut up."  

"Additional supplies?"

"Oxygen, basic first aid.  Any other injuries or problems?"

"I think the cocaine is enough for now, don't you?"

John paused a few seconds to try to prevent the words that he did indeed speak just before hanging up:  "Fuck you."

++

Sherlock had apparently been taken to Mycroft's office building, and was in the restricted access penthouse.  The elevator was waiting for John, along with an escort, and shortly John strode through the doors, also held open and ready for his entrance, and his eyes were drawn quickly to the cluster of activity around the couch Sherlock was laying on.  His color, John assessed immediately as he strode over, was underlying pallor and ruddy - signs of circulation definitely present.  He wondered, as he approached, if Mycroft had robbed a mini-hospital, given the nature of the critical care supplies in cartons that had been brought over and were waiting for him.

Kneeling, John quickly ripped open Sherlock's shirt, buttons shredding on the way, then tore Sherlock's sleeve, giving the cuff a violent yank, working silently, efficiently, noting both fever and bounding pulse rate, diaphoresis.  Hypertensive, he could tell just by the quality of pulse and dilation of arteriovenous circulation.  The IV start kit was in his own jump bag, and he deftly slapped then cannulated a cephalic vein, noting the one needle jab on Sherlock's left arm, to open wide a bag of D5W.  There was no flinch to the IV start, and John found that ominous.  He pried open an eyelid, found dilated pupils and minimal responsiveness.  "Oxygen?" he said curtly, and a tank was produced.  He applied the portable pulse oximeter he'd carried with him, it was unsurprisingly low given the circumstances, and a few liters via nasal cannula did actually improve the duskiness of Sherlock's pallid skin.  John checked his other arm for needle marks, found none, looked in his mouth to find a small amount of bile (wiped it out), checked his pockets briefly, found nothing of interest.  His skin was very hot, very feverish under John's hands, despite the ice packs.  

"Where was he when this started?"

"Basement of this building, actually, there's a small suite there, lounge, computer access.  Under the garage."

"Vomited there?"  Someone, Anthea perhaps, said that he had.  "Any seizure activity?"  And that was answered with a no.  The pulse oximeter also gave a heart rate readout, but no ECG tracing, and John asked if a heart monitor was possible, and was told that someone had gone to get one.  John didn't ask, didn't particularly care, but, if there were signs of heart damage, he was pulling rank on Mycroft and, if necessary, a gun as well.

"Are the medications I asked for here?" John took a moment, looked at Mycroft then, and really saw the depth of the concern in his eyes then.  The eyes staring back at him were stressed, sad, and reminiscent of the color of Sherlock's.  They were so different that John at times had to remind himself they were siblings.

"Should be, quite soon."  So John took a moment, checked a blood pressure, found it alarmingly high, and before he could fuss terribly much at Mycroft, a courier brought a sampling of some medication in vials, syringes, multiple packages, and additional IV fluids.

John decided on the lorazepam, drew up the dose, puffed it slowly into the IV tubing.  Mycroft had dismissed the scant people who'd been gathered to fetch supplies or wait for further instructions, and when it was just the four of them - three men plus Anthea - John finally sat back on his heels, sighed.  Sherlock's muscle tone was less rigid, less agitation present, and John kept the IV fluid infusing quickly; half the liter in already.  He took the small spiral notebook from Mycroft's outstretched hand then, checked over it, hating everything about it and suppressing the urge to slap the unresponsive man on the couch and his bloody brother for good measure.

"History today, please?" John asked.  Might as well have it in case he needed a higher level of care, once Mycroft agreed anyway.

"He was apparently working, materials spread everywhere.  Think he might have leaned back in the chair, was found that way, not awake.  Couldn't wake him up even after the naloxone intranasally.  You heard about the vomiting."

John nodded, checked another blood pressure, and then pawed through the supplies, looking for a thermometer.  Once finding one, the oral disposable type, he peeled it open, slid it under Sherlock's tongue, knowing it was likely to be falsely low just due to the hyperventilation.  The reading after a minute was 39.5.  John rearranged the ice packs, flipping some over, trying to get them closer to his skin for more contact.  "Hospital, Mycroft.  He needs his fever brought down, needs a heart monitor.  This is highly suspect for cocaine, obviously, and there can be heart, brain, and other organs damaged as a result."

There was a knock on the door, and a portable ECG monitor was brought in, and Mycroft handed it to John with an annoying smirk.  He placed the electrodes, connected it all, turned it on, and inspected the leads he was able to view with the limited availability.  His heart rate was 160 still, narrow complex ( _thank God!_ ) but John couldn't tell if there were changes significant for ischemia just due to the limited leads, and he wasn't about to jury rig the monitor, yet.  He then faced Mycroft again.  "He still has fever, and, while this looks ok, this is not the best location for him."  

"No hospital, John."

John nodded at the crate at Mycroft's feet.  "Look for paracetamol there."  John knelt at Sherlock's side, his face was flushed, skin moist, and the distress was plainly obvious as he breathed rapidly, panting, the body's compensatory mechanisms to try to blow off fever and metabolic acidosis.  John performed a primary survey, checking for traumatic injuries, abdominal rigidity, a cursory neuro exam - nothing that wasn't consistent with cocaine intoxication/overdose.

A bottle of paracetamol tablet appeared in front of John, who raised an eyebrow at Sherlock's brother.  "He can't swallow these."  He left the word idiot off the end of the sentence but may as well have spoken it, as they both heard it.  "Suppository."

"John --" he started to protest, and then seeing the murderous look on John's face, began digging back into the supplies.

"Or hospital.  You have left me with no other options."

"These?" and Anthea held up the paracetamol inserts she'd located.

John took them, glared at Mycroft, and banished him from the room with a feral "get out."  To Anthea, he said, "Help me turn him over."  And John found a glove and quickly unbuckled Sherlock's trousers.  He jerked them down low enough, and with Anthea's help, rolled him enough to get the medication where it could be safely absorbed.  Even that stimulation did nothing, he remained unresponsive, and they let him roll over onto his back again.  John's eyes had flicked to Sherlock's back as he was rolled, saw evidence of what Sherlock had not yet told him about - healing lines, scars, even down about his waist.  John tabled that information for later.  His blood pressure was still elevated, and John considered what other options they had as Mycroft knocked on the door again, wanting entrance, and John responded only with a growl followed by a clipped, "Come."  When Mycroft arrived, John selected the vial of diazepam from the medication supplies, stared at Sherlock, as waiting for his symptoms to abate by his own sheer willpower.  He repositioned the ice packs again, straightened his clothing as best he could, decided to administer a small dose in addition to what had already been given.  His heart rate eased down slightly within a few minutes, and John gave another quarter-dose.  The respiratory distress seemed to ease, he was able to breathe more fully, and his breathing pattern slowed to still elevated but not alarmingly so.

Over the next few minutes, the IV bag finished, and John spiked another.  Mycroft attempted a question and John silenced him with a withering glare.  His mobile buzzed from his pocket, and he ignored it, turning eyes back to watch Sherlock's heart rate gradually slide down to just over 100.   _Finally._

He called his name, lifted an eyelid, eliciting a groan and a squint.  John became aware of a deep and coiling rage within, of being used and unappreciated in this charade that he caught Mycroft's eye and gestured to the doorway, where he could still keep an eye on Sherlock but speak without fear of being overheard.

He leaned in, although Mycroft didn't seem to care as he stood, unaffected and unemotional.  "I am putting you on notice, that if he complains of any sort of chest pain - any little twinge of cardiac involvement - then we are going to the hospital.  I am not jeopardising his health for your... prideful arrogant motives in keeping him away."

Mycroft blinked, turned to look down the hallway, sighed in annoyance at John's indignant attitude.  "There has been a threat on his life.  I cannot guarantee his safety there."

"He's an apparent threat to his own as well, yet you're willing to risk that."

"I will not place him in unnecessary risk unless there are no other alternatives."

"I stand on my statement.  Chest pain, _hospital_."

"We'll see."

John turned on his heel crossed back to where Sherlock lay, nudged him with his knee, and said, "Wake up, you wanker.  Your brother needs to be put in his place.  Again."

His eyes stayed closed, but his eyebrows raised as if he were listening, and he turned his head to the side.  He looked, in that restless moment of sleep, as if he were eight years old again, his face was that youthful.  The sweating began profusely then, as perhaps the paracetamol already began to take effect to break the fever, the fluids infusing, restoring the body's balance back toward normal.

John took a few moments, listened to his chest again, reconnected the monitor that had come loose with the moist skin, and palpated his abdomen.  No rigidity, still, but some bladder distention, and John pressed into it, looking for purposeful response, and got it.  The moan that came was shortly followed by the restless movement of his hand grabbing the oxygen away from under his nose.

"Put that back on, or I swear to God, Sherlock," John didn't stop to think about it, but the words were spoken through jaws clenched so tight they barely opened, "leave that on _or else_."

"Ummnnshhh..." the quiet sound came from the back of Sherlock's throat, a guttural moan.

John resisted the urge to slap or even perform the sternal rub that often cut through altered mental status to elicit purposeful response to pain.  His heart rate was better, respiratory status improving, and when John checked another blood pressure, that was approaching normal too.  When he removed the cuff, and happened to glance at his face, Sherlock's red rimmed eyes were open.  Next to his pale blue eyes and alabaster skin, the redness stood out sorely, adding a more distressed look to his already drawn, uncomfortable features.

John needed no words for Sherlock to see exactly how angry, furious, and serious he was.  John was partially afraid if he opened his mouth to speak to the man, that he wouldn't be able to shut up, might actually inflict bodily harm in his attempt to convey how upset he was.

"Not enough time!" Sherlock said, frustrated, and Mycroft's shoes clipped on the floor until he was standing right behind John, close enough to hear.  "Not deep enough."

Mycroft answered, "Tell me."

"I was almost there."

"Yes, exactly."  John spoke low, commandingly.  "Almost dead, that is."  John stood then, faced Mycroft, fists clenched at his side.  "Out.  All of you out.  Now."  Despite John's order, Anthea looked to Mycroft for a nod before leaving the room.  Stone-faced, John watched them leave and didn't turn back to Sherlock until the door had closed.  When John finally stood looking down at Sherlock, his glare should have kept the man from uttering a word, but of course it was Sherlock, and it didn't, but he aborted the sentence as John held up a hand.

"Not a bloody word from you until I give you permission."  Pause.  " _This_ was completely and utterly unacceptable."  He glanced at the monitors, the IV (which he knew Sherlock would be fussing at shortly, if not pulling it out), the supplies that were kind of strewn about in their haste to locate things.  He breathed, deliberately taking it down a notch or two.  "First, are you having any chest pain, any tightness at all?"  Sherlock shook his head slowly in the negative.  John hoped he was telling the truth, thought it more likely with Mycroft absent the room.  "Any arm, jaw pain, or trouble breathing?"  Another head shake no.

John grabbed the small notebook that both he and Mycroft had looked at already that afternoon, held up the list that Sherlock had agreed to use, that John had now seen a few times.  "This is not updated, is it?"  And when Sherlock prepared a few words, John silenced him with the murderous glare that shut him up.  "This is a problem, isn't it?  And how many other times were left off?"  John flipped through, looking for dates, and it seemed nothing had been noted since his return to London... the night at the restaurant where he'd seen John and Mary, met John later, that was the last entry.  John forced his mind on track, in order not to be distracted by the "why" of his drug usage.  "You may answer."

"None, I swear it."

"Okay, well for a genius you're pretty fucking stupid."  That got his attention.  "So drug usage is very largely dependent on how much you use and how often you use it.  As time goes on," and John let as much condescension slip into his tone as he could, because in his opinion, Sherlock did not have the market cornered on all things dramatic, for God's sake, "your body gets used to more, if you're using regularly, or requires less if you're not.  So if a period of time goes by, you have to use less.  Or if you're body mass index drops, you -- oh, gee, I don't know -- spend some time out of the country and don't eat well to begin with, you have to use bloody less, reduce your dose.  Where do you think the word _overdose_ comes..."

"Shut up, John."  He sounded tired, and John weighed his options as far as how hard he wanted to push him.  Pretty damned far, maybe out the window from a building this height...

He let his voice gentle just a bit, but was not going to surrender control to Sherlock.  "Actually, I'm not done yet.  This is not okay.  You claim it helps you think, well, not if you overdose, unintentionally or otherwise, and end up with seizures or brain injury.  And cocaine can do all of that and more - fever, heart attack, organ damage, do you want me to continue?"  He shook his head no again.  "And for the record, I saw part of your back, the scars."  They both watched John's hands as they fussed at the IV, opening it up to infuse the remnants of the second bag, with supplies at the ready as he clamped it off, pulled the tape off, leaving the hub and plastic catheter in place.  He helped Sherlock to a sitting position to see how he tolerated it.  The sweating was still there, his clothing damp, but overall his condition much improved.  He watched the remaining monitors, again, curious as to Mycroft's circle of influence.  Another blood pressure was low again, probably Sherlock's normal readings.  Once John was tolerant of Sherlock's stability, he rose to open the door to the hallway, and a few minutes later, wordlessly, Mycroft slunk in.

"Safe and sound, I see."   And Mycroft snorted, in that Holmesian language that enveloped so many disdainful comments without a single spoken word.  John wanted to wound him, not specifically for anything other than existing and his whole attitude.

"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock said, his eyes now mostly clear as he finally took stock in his surroundings, touching the heart monitor and oxygen sensor on his finger.  He looked questioningly to John, obviously wanting both removed, and John shook his head.  Sherlock asked his brother, "How did I get here?"

"Dragged, so Bohemian.  Fortunately for you, blissfully unaware.  We can find the video if you choose."  John wondered where Mycroft had learned to be so pompous.  "You were almost too deep, brother dear."  The sarcastic tone did not seem to affect Sherlock in the least.  "Dr. Watson has been most concerned."

"It appears I might have accidentally given him good reason."  His speech was much clearer than previously, and he carefully put his hands through his sweaty hair, trying to get it off his forehead.  The IV impeded his movements, threatening to get caught, and he made a displeased face at it.  Something obviously occurred to him, then, and he, tilted his head in thought.  "John."  John watched carefully, wondering at any number of things Sherlock could be suddenly concerned about.  "Why are my trousers undone?"

"Because I knew you were going to have to empty your bladder soon.  Give you a head start."

All present in the room recognised the lie.  "Where --?" John began, and Mycroft was already moving toward the corner of the suite, flipping on the light in preparation.  John pulled off the remaining monitors, powering them down, added them to the detritus of supplies there.  Sherlock stood on wobbly legs, with John holding one arm and Mycroft hoping not to have to hold the other judging by the look on his face.  John paused at the doorway.  "No falling over."

"No, I think this is a seated performance.  A seated _solo_ performance."  And Sherlock stared at John until he left the room, leaving the door closed but not latched.

 Mycroft eyed John as they waited.  "Can he stay with you tonight?" John asked.

"He will refuse."

John considered that, checked his mobile, found three texts and a voicemail from Mary.  He ignored them.  "This is not over.  He cannot..."

Mycroft interrupted.  "He will refuse all but you, John, and you know it."

"It will not go over well."  His pointed gaze directly at Mycroft left no doubt he was referring to Mary.

"Or maybe she won't care."

Sherlock appeared at the doorway again, looking tired but surprisingly upright and more steady.  "Mycroft, you should tell him."

The brothers seemed to have a long discussion simply through their eye contact, that John had absolutely no clue about, and finally Mycroft apparently lost the battle, looked at John.  "Has Mary mentioned a person by the name of David to you?"

John felt his stomach churn just a little.  "No."  He was not about to ask any questions or attempt to speculate.  He stepped out of the way, allowing Sherlock access to an upholstered chair near where they stood, so he could sit down before he fell over.

"David appears to be someone from her past, and is likely a connection to her undercover work."  John heard what they were saying, and what they had not said, and he held Mycroft's gaze until he added, "They have been in contact.  Frequently."

Sherlock groaned a bit then, his head tipped back against the chair, eyes closed.  "If you stay at Baker Street tonight, with me, as you seem to feel I cannot be unattended, it is very likely that David will show up at your flat." 

John considered that faithfulness was not exactly a standard he could even begin to wish on Mary, seeing as how he wasn't living it either.  "Does it further the plan to give her the opportunity?"

The Holmes brothers exchanged a glance, and John knew there was more to it, that he was, once again, out of the loop.  Mycroft spoke, and John saw Sherlock's posture wilt in the chair as he began.  "It will.  There are cameras in your flat, and we will both see and hear whatever goes on there tonight."

John heard the word 'cameras', pondered back over the moments he shared with Mary, the times they'd probably looked like any other normal engaged couple.  Captured on monitoring devices, viewed by God knew who in addition to the persons in the room.  He grabbed the mobile from his pocket, spoke out loud as he texted Mary, slowly.   **Staying at Baker Street tonight, Sherlock's rather upset.  See you after work tomorrow.  Don't worry.  Love John**

To the room, he spoke the only words he could think at the moment, knowing what he now knew.  "I hate you both." 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter: The behind the scenes look at the bonfire, a nod at the wedding, and a few of the times John saw Sherlock high. Spoiler: on the tarmac when saying good bye was definitely _not one of them_.
> 
> Let me know if I missed something, a comment or kudo is always _wholly_ appreciated.
> 
> Seems to be that both Sherlock and Mycroft should have their morals and motivations and unscrupulous behaviour questioned. I'm thinking BAMF!John may be making an appearance in chapter 6.


	6. A Tangled Web

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A tangled web of partial truths, deliberate deception, and hearts and flowers in this chapter, and then of course big feels awaiting at the end. Of course, because _Johnlock_.

The ride back to Baker Street from Mycroft's office building was solemn, with Sherlock groggy and John furious.  Sherlock tried to speak to him in the back of Mycroft's sedan, but John silenced him with an upheld palm and a stare that communicated much hostility.  He'd packed his bag he'd brought along from the surgery, collected a few other medications, supplies, and things he might need overnight if Sherlock became either symptomatic or somnolent again, which could certainly happen, and did not speak to Mycroft when the man expressed his gratitude for John's assistance.  John held the car door for Sherlock, let him struggle on his own until they stood inside, at the bottom of the steps leading up to the flat.

"Up you go," John said with a twinge of impatience when Sherlock paused there looking up as if it were an unaccessible cliff.  "Do you need help?" and both could hear the frustration in John's tone.

There was a delay in answering.  "Perhaps."  

John slid the bag and backpack of supplies down, setting them on the landing, then reached one arm around Sherlock's waist and the other steadying his arm as they ascended, slowly, with him gripping the handrail.  Once inside, Sherlock let his legs fold his frame into the nearest chair while John brought his things up, then closed and locked the door.  Hanging up his jacket, he then turned to Sherlock who was watching.

"Pain at all, anywhere?" John asked, wondering if the exertion along with the cocaine was a bad combination.

Sherlock shook his head, hesitated for a moment, then said, "I'm sorry."

"No you're not."

"I'm sorry you're upset, then."

"Yeah, well."  John took the bags back to the bedroom, returned to stand looking down at Sherlock.  "You're next," he said, pointing with his head toward the bedroom.

"Here's fine."  And somehow, even obviously feeling poorly and randomly draped over the chair, he did seem as if he'd found a comfortable position.

"Are you sure you want to start arguing with me, already?"  John looked down unhappily at him.  "Because I am _really_ not in the mood.  Not now."

After a bit of a standoff, John offered his hand and Sherlock reluctantly accepted it.  They paused at the door to the loo long enough for Sherlock to refuse entering, and John took a pair of pyjama pants and tee shirt, held it out.  In reply, Sherlock held out his arm, showing the IV site that remained in, capped.  

"No, we're keeping that tonight."  There was no further discussion, although both of them knew Sherlock wasn't happy about it.  John did offer the explanation that it would hopefully not be needed, but in case his symptoms returned, the access would be expedient.  John paid careful attention as the shirt slid over the site, helping him out of his clothes as if undressing a toddler - 'arms up,' 'step out,' and then finally 'into bed with you.'  It was as much a caring gesture and concern for physical needs as it was about control, about who was in charge right now, that John was issuing orders.  He put his own sleep pants on, then gathered a few things to have handy before joining him in the bed, anything but tired.

"Need water?"  He shook his head.  John held out the small pulse oximeter, and when Sherlock merely looked at it and then questioningly at John, John spoke again, "Finger please."

"Oh for God's sake, John, why?"

John felt his teeth grind together.  "Oh, I don't know, perhaps I would rather not wake up with a corpse next to me --"

"Don't knock it till you try it."  His use of humour was often the most inappropriate when he was the most nervous.  John was not to be side-tracked.

"Shut up.  Just fucking shut up, already."  John wondered at their chemistry together, because even as he was as angry as he'd been in quite some time, he still wanted to be right here, with him, supporting, caring, protecting him from himself, his own worst enemy - nothing new under the sun.  He suppressed the personal issues, went into doctor mode.  "Because if you stop breathing, or have any delayed signs of seizure activity, I need to know immediately.  Or, if you would rather, I'll just stay awake all night watching you with my finger on your radial artery.  And I'm sure if you find me irritable now, after an entire night keeping an eye on you, with no sleep, I'm sure tomorrow will be a delightful experience for you."  There was the slightest movement of Sherlock's mouth as he almost refrained from smirking at that.  John ignored it, adding, "Or we can get you admitted to the hospital and the staff can monitor your sorry arse."

Compliant, then, Sherlock held out a finger, wordlessly, and John switched the sensor on.  As Sherlock watched, John pulled the sensor off to get a feel for the volume and sensitivity of the alarm, then nodded with approval as he placed it back on Sherlock's finger.  He adjusted some alarm limits, and when he looked back at the other form in the bed, Sherlock's eyes were already almost closed.  It took a long time for John to relax enough to dim the light and finally fall to sleep.  He was grateful for the dreams that never came.  

++

Sherlock's mobile was in his hand when John woke up and opened one eye.  He wriggled his finger still wearing the pulse oximeter probe, and John had to smirk, as Sherlock could certainly have turned it off with John being none the wiser.  They were both still in bed, Sherlock of course, awake first, had likely been up for a while, leaning against the headboard.  

"Are you okay?" John asked.  He sighed, exhaling through pursed lips, wondering about any lingering effects.

Sherlock looked back, pleased, wearing that beautifully crooked smile.  "Could ask the same of you."  John's murderous rage had tempered down a bit certainly, sleep had been restorative, and the alarm on the monitor had only gone off twice - once when it slipped of Sherlock's finger and the other for a high heart rate alarm that was quickly self-limiting.  It had actually startled both of them, and both quickly moved to replace the sensor and silence the alarm, before settling back down to listen to the other's breathing, comforted by the physical presence within the bed.  John had been the one to cross the center of the bed while it was still dark and tuck an extremity under Sherlock's calf, the physical touch and connection both centering and reassuring.

"My personal concerns are not life-threatening.  Are you feeling ok?" he asked again, insisting.

"Yes, I'm fine.  No pain, head pretty clear."  He was scrolling, took a moment to look at John, then reached out his pyjama clad leg to tuck it under John's in a gesture of solidarity.  "IV site hurts, though."  He pushed up a sleeve to show John the plastic IV hub that remained in, another rather surprising show of cooperation that didn't escape John's notice.

"Yeah, well, perhaps you should have a pervasive avoidance of needles in the future.  I could always find bigger IV catheters and more sensitive areas to place them, you realise."  He stretched.  "Guess we can take that out now."  John sat up then.  "I'm scheduled at work this morning.  And I should check in..." he left the sentence trail off.

It came crashing down then, an errant wave over his head, an unforeseen tackle, an ambush.   _Mary_.  John angled out his chin probably without meaning to.  "Any sightings?"  John glanced at the mobile, knowing he and Mycroft would already have known what had or hadn't transpired.   _David_.  John swallowed hard, not liking the situation or the fact that he was also not innocent, and had no grounds to really complain about it.

Sherlock stared for a moment before answering, apparently trying to decide whether to lie or not.  He glanced back down to his mobile, avoiding the steady stare John had still fixed on him.  "He spent the night there."

So many more things could have been said.  "How long's this been going on?"

"Long enough to question paternity.  Depending on what she claims is her due date."

"I am flabbergasted you have cameras there, have known about it, and are _just bloody now_ getting around to letting me in on it."  The fight that they didn't have last night was ready to begin in earnest.

Sherlock's gaze took in much of John's demeanor, aggressive body language, and then had the audacity to sneer.  "What are you really angry about, John?"

"You want a bloody list?"  John, when upset could talk loudly, his voice raised in anger.  When he had escalated far beyond angry, furious, and upset, his tone dropped to lethal, ominous, and a growl that implied deadliness was coming.  He stood, too keyed up to stay still and too irritated to stay within punching range of the idiot he was conversing with.  He fussed at the medical kit with more frustration than necessary, found a few supplies, came back over to Sherlock, who held out his arm again, a bit hesitant at John's potential to take out his aggression under the guise of medical care.  John snapped on a pair of gloves, letting that message sink in, then, and forced himself to slow down just enough to assure he was not merely reacting.  Taking a corner of the IV dressing, he pulled it off from corner to corner, tugging at skin and removing arm hair in the process.

Sherlock's face remained completely impassive, despite his earlier complaint about the tender site.

Once the site was out, he felt free enough to speak.  "No, I want you to figure out why you are so upset.  What is it?"  John applied gauze to the puncture, held pressure for a few minutes, and secured it with tape.

"Fine."  He sneered, knowing nothing about this was going to be remotely a good conversation.  He binned the trash, took a deep breath, and could hear mental trumpets playing _CHARGE_ inside his head.  "You are still keeping important things from me.  I don't trust you."  And then John let loose with a verbal barrage of all the things he didn't trust him to do - stay safe, tell him what was happening, inform him about probably illegally placed cameras in his flat, to fail to make mention that his fiance was up to no good, to update the bloody list (and that ended up tangentially taking several minutes  as John described all that could have happened yesterday), to haphazardly fail to recognise when he was in over his head.  "And now," John said, concluding his tirade, knowing there was nothing Sherlock could say in rebuttal, "I get to go to work as if everything is fine and dandy."

He was in the shower before he realised he'd blamed none of his upset on Mary directly.  Telling.

++

There was excitement, or was it fear in her eyes, when she burst through the door at Baker Street, mobile in hand.  Sherlock had already risen, sensing the need for vigilance, as Mary entered the flat to stand face to face with him.  She explained, breathless, that John may be in trouble.

"It's a skip code."  Together they studied the message, the words coming together in an ominous deadly message, to 'save John Watson,' and the destination the sender had given them.

The announcement about John's peril, the skip code, Mary telling him the code was every third word, had caught Sherlock off-guard.  There had been no fore-warning, no sense of impending doom, no cryptic warning from his brother.  He unlocked his mobile to view the app that was always running, John's location, which was exactly where Mary had been told he was at the church.  The app tracking his whereabouts had been unmentioned to John, and Sherlock hoped to keep it that way at least for a little while if possible.  Forever would be an even better option.

Sherlock could almost taste his own fear, they had missed something and John was in danger at the hands of someone who was toying with them all without a care for the outcome other than the _game._ It would have been funny that he railed at the very thing that drove others to frustration about him - his apparent lack of personal caring and at the cost to others.  This was bloody different, though, he would have said - this was _John._

He followed Mary down the steps, mind whirling with possibilities, many of them bad, and seized a motorbike for a quick path across London.   It was terribly distracting to have Mary's hands holding him, around his waist, as he manoeuvered through the city, racing against the clock to get to John, those hands that were gripping his body!  They were ones that had touched John, had held him, would wear his ring in just a few short weeks.  Hands that had free access to him in the nights, in the morning over coffee, as they walked down the street.  He worked hard at not shuddering at the contact, at not being burned by their very touch, trying not to allow his mind to envision these hands on his John.  His skin was crawling and he was grateful for the motorcycle that demanded all of his attention as they took a few short cuts that may have involved up and down shallow steps.  It would not have horrified him if she fell off, although, he reminded himself in case it happened, he really would have to quickly collect her and keep on toward the target.  But those hands held firm, holding tighter as he sped up or took a sharp corner.  And they were, as far as he and Mycroft could tell, also dangerous and deceitful hands.  He sped up toward the destination again, anxious for John's rescue and to get _those hands off_ his person!

When he saw the bonfire at the given ending address, he knew John's exact location, nearly ran over obstacles, some of which may have been _bloody people_ in his _bloody way_.  It was he who ripped at the pallets aflame while Mary stood back from the heat and smoke calling John's name.  John lay on his back, freed from the impending conflagration then, as Mary and Sherlock both looked down at him in alarm.  He gulped at the air, still smelling the smoke that clung to the inside of his airways, his hair, clothing, skin even, seeing concern on both their faces.  It was Sherlock's that disturbed him the most - as this, obviously, was very unexpected.  He'd been _frightened_.

Lestrade took care of tracking down the motorcycle owner, offered an ambulance which was declined by all of them, secured both Sherlock and John a ride to Baker Street.  Sherlock called Mycroft, explaining briefly what had happened and requesting CCTV footage from the church as well as the site of John's abduction, immediately, trying to find who had done this and where it had originated.  John stood with Mary, awkwardly, as she examined the puncture mark on his neck from the syringe, hugged him close, clearly upset at the mark on his neck.  John carefully avoided Sherlock's gaze, his awareness of his presence, but could feel his eyes on him as Sherlock talked into his mobile, needing Mycroft's buy-in.  He hoped it was convincing enough as he hugged Mary back, ruffling her hair and affirming that he was okay.  Mary assured them both that she would be fine going home, knowing they had some work to do as they attempted to figure out who may have been behind the attack.  He mentioned if it got too late, he would likely kip on the couch or in his old room so he didn't disturb her too late, and she smiled, thanked him for being considerate.  He attempted to smile convincingly hoping the hollowness didn't show as he patted her arm, and he could feel Sherlock's eyes on him as if they were burning through his skin.  She reminded John about the tuxedo fitting tomorrow as the three of them stood there, with Sherlock having hung up already, just waiting there, standing close to them, for her to leave.  "You too, Sherlock," she said, raising a no-nonsense brow at him until he responded affirmatively that he would be there.  "Perhaps we can all have dinner, then, John, at home afterward?"

He thought about playing the post-smoke-inhalation escape card, decided to save that for later, said simply, "Yes, of course."

Back in Baker Street, later, they were both slightly concerned at the coughing spasms which continued as the night wore on, and John could feel the inflammation deep within his trachea.  He talked less after explaining, which suited Sherlock, and eventually Mycroft rang to say he was on his way over with footage.  Sherlock recounted the early events of the evening, after John's description of what he could recall of his own abduction on the street, and the two men simply stared at each other, reveling in the discoveries in Mary's behaviours.  Mary had tipped her hand without even being completely aware she'd done it, as far as they could tell.  Discovering a skip coded message was typically not the first thought when someone was in danger, particularly someone you professed to love.

"How peculiar, John," Sherlock began, "that her first thought was finding the means to solve the mystery and not concern over your well being."

John just stared at him, certain that his expression was something between shocked and amused, wondering how a genius could be so bloody stupid.  It took a few long seconds before Sherlock looked over at him, puzzled at why John had not responded to that.  "What?" he said, with a shrug and furrowed brows.

"Do you not listen to yourself?"  When Sherlock still did not make the connection, John could only shake his head.  "I think every case we've ever had, you have made comments to that effect, been calloused in your dealings with people who were suffering, hurt, killed.  You care about the thrill you get from playing the game, not about the collateral damage."

It was as if Sherlock had become aware just that moment, and the self-realisation seemed to take him by surprise.  John watched him carefully, his eyes taking in the nuances of Sherlock's discovery, and he felt a stirring of emotion when Sherlock turned actually gentle eyes back to stare into his own.  "And you know, that's the shocking part of this, John.  Tonight?" he seemed inscrutable then, his face blank.  "Tonight I couldn't have cared less about the skip code - tonight I thought I might have lost you."  A gulping swallow, then, "Failed to protect you.  That's what this whole mess started with."

It was just then that Mycroft showed up, his computer, his umbrella, and his dour expression all neatly coiled into 6 feet of unpleasantness.  He eyed John and inclined his head to the side, apparently which might have meant nice to see you, hope you are all right, or shut up - John didn't care as long as he provided some information.  The attack on his person was carried out by two men recognised by none of them, the car non-descript, and the next time he was spotted was being 'assisted' toward the bonfire while a distraction occurred at the church, and palettes and other scrap wood for burning were placed, concealing his location.  Some time went by until activity resumed, and the camera caught both Sherlock and Mary approach, and their respective expressions (both concerned, one terrified) as they came toward the flames.  

"Need to pan the crowd.  Nothing looks out of place, but clearly someone was there, evidenced by the text messages to Mary's phone."

"And who was paying attention as they arrived?  Are there more --" and John paused to clear his throat, the cough sounding more raw and angry.  He sensed and felt the inflamed tissues and the resultant mucous production - protective, a result of injury, but problematic if he couldn't clear it readily.

"Camera angles?" Sherlock finished for him, and John flashed him a grateful look.

Mycroft hit play again, studying the images.  "The flames are not helpful, ruining the picture quality."  He performed a few keystrokes, noted slight improvements.  

Sherlock pointed to a few spots to zoom in on, and they discussed a few of the profiles and faced they saw, nothing particularly revealing.  Mycroft checked his phone again in response to some sort of flashing alert.  "Mary just showed up across the street from the church."

John raised his head, wondering at what kind of alert had been raised.  "You know this how?"

"Tracking her mobile of course."  John looked abruptly at Sherlock to see the cautionary expression he was trying to convey to his brother.  

"Of course.  And anytime she shows up..." he kept his voice on the quieter side of a whisper in deference to his throat pain.

"...somewhere out of the ordinary, there is a text message generated."  Mycroft saw Sherlock's concerned face, got a conniving and somewhat sinister smile on his face, and continued, "Exactly like the ones Sherlock gets."  John couldn't decide which Holmes he wanted to inflict pain on more.

Sherlock hissed the word 'bastard' at the same time John repeated the phrase, "exactly like the ones..."

 Sherlock held out his hands in a placating condescending manner, saying, "John, it's for your own protection."

"Worked great tonight, eh?"  He had to really pay attention to keep his voice quiet while inwardly he wanted to shout.  "And that is _so_ not the point."  He stood, intent on leaving the pair to their own company, decided perhaps a bit of steam in a hot shower would be beneficial to the discomfort.  When he got out of the shower, he found that Sherlock had tossed a dressing gown into the bathroom.  The cough did in fact seem better afterward, and in the quick glance into the sitting room, they were still huddled around the laptop, so John headed for the bedroom.

Once in the room, door closed, he took stock as he lay down, exhausted and likely still somewhat drugged.  His throat hurt, he could feel the smoke damage reverberating through his lungs, the singed tissues inflamed.  He sat up, coughed, triggering a bronchospasm, and had to sit up, tripodding before he could effectively catch his breath.  Odd, he'd seen many patients over the years with advanced lung disease who sat in the very position he found relief in, leaning forward, elbows supporting the expansion of ribs, facilitating respiration.  It was eye-opening, the claustrophobic sensation of air hunger.

Once the cough abated, breathing relaxing slightly, he wiped the reflexive tears from his eyes, _damned coughing spell_ , and looked up as Sherlock entered the bedroom.  The rest of the flat was dark and quiet.

"You ok?" Sherlock asked, solemnly, having obviously heard the coughing and seeing the dramatic effects remaining.  "Should we be at a hospital?"

John considered the question.  "I don't think so.  No burns, no mental status change - far as I can tell anyway.  I don't think hyperbaric oxygen would benefit."  He paused to take a deep breath and cough again.  The sputum when he looked at it was mostly clear, a few flecks of dark soot and the faintest blood tinge - all expected, and not alarming as long as it didn't get worse.

"Well, that's disgusting."

"Says the man who voluntarily puts a cigarette in his mouth and inhales.   _And worse_."  The smile that came to his face was brief, and he added, "And tell me again about the various decaying body parts you used to keep here regularly?"  His voice sounded tight even to his own ears, and he could feel his lungs in ways that weren't normal as he breathed in deliberately, exhaled fully.  "Thanks for pulling me out, by the way."

"I'm sorry I didn't tell you about the tracking on your mobile."

John handed him the device from the bedside table.  "Enable it on mine, too."

Sherlock just looked at him.  "It will raise suspicion if Mary checks your phone.  I'm hesitant."  He removed his clothing, climbed into bed, and then continued as he pulled up the duvet, "You're already obviously in enough danger without doing something that could potentially be detrimental."

"She knew about the bonfire?"

He made a questioning face, brows furrowed.  "I don't think so."  With a few waves of his fingers, he dismissed John's mobile.  "It's connected, though, to be sure."  Looking over at John for permission, he reached for the lamp.  In the darkness, they were quiet and untouching for a few minutes.  John stayed slightly elevated, tucking the pillows behind him, hoping to ease the respiratory discomfort with the incline.  "I just wish it wasn't you in danger.  Mary concerns me, in truth.  She has the potential to do you great harm." 

"Yeah, well," John replied, voice rough and clearing his throat, "I think we've already determined I should sleep with one eye open."  There was a cautious sigh from John's side of the bed.  "And so help me, I'm _done_ with finding out you are still withholding things from me."

Sherlock swallowed hard, grateful for the darkness and dreading that moment in the future when the rest of the plan unveiled itself to John.  He hadn't yet put all of the pieces together about Mary's connectedness to David, but already it was ominous.

++

The following morning, Mary arrived at the flat with a bag of pastries and coffee for the three of them.  It was fortuitous that the tracking device alerted Sherlock at her close proximity, not that they'd been up to anything and in danger of being interrupted, but neither was fully dressed, and the advanced warning gave them a few minutes to prepare.  When Sherlock commented on the text alert, John reminded him that he could power off his phone whenever he chose, to thwart the app from working, between the two of them.  "Well, John, that would be asinine!"

The knock at the door interrupted John's cheeky reply, and, quieted for the moment, he went down to meet Mary at the door.  She'd arrived with a change of clothes for John, as well, and made herself rather comfortable in the flat.

"Are you ok, John?  Lungs hurt?"

"Mucous production, a bit more than I was expecting."  She placed her hand flat against the front of his chest, over his sternum as he breathed, in order to feel for fremitus, found it easily.  John placed his hand overtop hers, partly to prevent her from moving it too much, and partly to maintain control.  It was a constant battle of vigilance not to look over at Sherlock, to focus his attention on Mary.

"But you're feeling ok?"

"Bit ... _smoked_."  

++

Sherlock had explained to John about Mycroft's deliberate planting of the subway car with the fake although realistic appearing explosives, of the video that had been altered, of their suspicion that there was live feed from the car, and of their need to lay aside their perceived differences, to play out some sort of a scene, to be caught unawares and, John especially, _clueless_.  It was a well thought out craft of rumour and lie, that both Mycroft and Sherlock were going to need leverage and ammunition, as it were, in the future.  The video in the car, similar to other tube cars, was going to be proof positive that Sherlock was capable and deserving of official pardon for what, at this time, was something that hadn't even happened yet.  Mycroft had set it in motion before Sherlock had even been brought home, part of their timeline.

John felt as if he were in his college elective theatre class, and was acting badly about an impending death role and a final goodbye, I forgive you lines, of the poorly dramatic attention as he closed his eyes and thrust out his chest, after apologising, awaiting an explosion that of course never came.  Sherlock managed to come across heartless and it would have been hurtful if John hadn't known about it ahead of time.  It was easier to summon the anger once Sherlock set him up so bloody well.

Later they curled around each other at Baker Street in one of the rare stolen hours they'd managed to carve out of both of their days.  The wedding was only days away, and plans were in full swing.  They'd discussed possibilities, dangers, inherent problems that could come, about scene security.  Sherlock had refused, however, to let John hear the song he'd composed and rehearsed.  It was to be saved for that day and then never played again.  The only copy of the music would be destroyed, a fake one gifted to the newlyweds at the close of the reception.

The subway explosive set up was a nice diversion from wedding plans, where Sherlock seemed to have taken quite an active role even as Mary and John were carried along in the activities.  So after the somewhat staged appearance of the Met at the subway car, John and Sherlock had quickly disappeared, claiming the need to review data and video footage.  John's biggest threat - Mary - was out for the entire day with friends, and didn't seem to think anything was amiss at John's text alerting her he would be unavailable for a few hours.  

And they'd made short work of each others clothing, barely making it to Sherlock's bed before seeking comfort in hands and mouths and the delightful friction of skin on skin.  Sherlock seemed to recover first from a gut-wrenching and full-out shattering orgasm, and brought the laptop to bed.  It wasn't a complete lie that they would review footage, and they watched the video on the laptop while in bed, Sherlock's laughter with tears rolling down his face at John's antics.

"There's always an off switch,"  John repeated along with the video.  His hand stroked down Sherlock's slightly still sweaty chest.  "I beg to differ, sir.   _You_ apparently do not come with an off-switch," and his hand wrapped around Sherlock's arse, cupping the firm muscle, drawing them close.  Even though they were both (completely, wholly, blissfully, skin-tingling) sated, the touch was still fulfilling and intimate.  "And I would never want to activate that anyway."  Sherlock's mobile buzzed then, and he reached for it, digging his toes into the mattress as he stretched.  John read the screen, sneered, " _Mycroft_.  Now there's a good spot for a bloody off switch."

Sherlock ignored the call, set the phone aside, and rolled over on top of John, who had learned rather quickly that Sherlock's bony rib cage hurt much less if John was able to brace his upper body with strong hands.  The mobile buzzed again, this time with an incoming text.  Sherlock read it, lowered his head to the pillow in defeat, his face firmly although temporarily mushed into the pillow.   **Stop playing with your boy toy and answer the damned phone.  It's urgent.**

"What were you saying about an off switch?" he grumbled, rolling to a comfortable place, drawing John with him, their naked bodies as entwined as they could possibly be.  It was Sherlock's passive aggressive response to Mycroft demanding anything from him, to refuse to dress, to cling to something Mycroft had told him to put down.

As the phone dialed, Sherlock initiating out of stubbornness, John snickered, "Next time we should video call instead."

Sherlock, in a rare display of self-restraint, did _not_ hang up to do exactly John's suggestion.  Instead, he spoke when Mycroft answered, _"What?"_

 John could hear quite well both sides of the conversation.  Mycroft did not mince words.  "I have information about David."

"What is it that couldn't wait, Mycroft?"

"It appears David is married."  There was a pause, with all three of them silent and waiting.  "To one _Mary Morstan."_

That news was enough to prod Sherlock into sitting upright in bed, detangling from John's embrace.  "Bloody hell!"

++

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading - for your patience. I tried hard not to break this chapter in half, but it was not to be (so many things I thought would be just _clever_ to include, so it took me a bit longer to finish (and then edit, edit, edit, panic, and edit again).
> 
> Let me know if I've missed something.
> 
>  
> 
> One more chapter! Coming up:
> 
> A few wedding deleted scenes, ones that make me feel so much better about poor Sherlock only acting like his heart was broken. Then, the drug usage in the crack house, where John discovered a surprise along with Isaac Wembley, was far different than what he'd seen previously. A brief nod at Magnussen. And quite a far cry from Sherlock's appearance after their goodbye on the tarmac, and an interesting wrinkle when Sherlock was joined on the airplane.


	7. Dangerous Triangulation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> From the wedding to after the shooting, a few nods at the series and some inclusion of some *ahem* extras.

"I'm not sure I can go through with this."  John pressed a hand to his stomach, his skin a slight green color, skin moist.  He was standing in an alcove with Sherlock, both of them resplendent in formal grey tuxedos, identical at Mary's insistence.  The platinum band on his finger, Mary's choice, newly placed, kept catching his eye and was somewhat smotheringly unwelcome.  The top-hat was also her choosing, one which John liked and Sherlock despised.  John couldn't have been sure if his distaste at that accessory had more to do with his height or the fact that the hat threatened to mess up his hair.

"We can try to find another option, if you truly can't, you know," Sherlock's voice was low.  John was already shaking his head.  "Although it will considerably lengthen the time needed to find the source."

"Of course not.  It's a bit late for that, now, anyway."  John moved a few steps away, not trusting himself any closer as his body longed for the reassuring and centering touch, the _grounding_ , that Sherlock was typically quick to provide him with. "I'm just concerned."

"I'm sorry, John, that I was unable to verify the validity of the current status of David and Mary as still married or not.  This may not even be legal."  Sherlock drew apart further then as Janine approached, and conversation of course went another direction.

As they'd been doing since Christmas eve months before, they would stay the course, finish this, as they worked for their futures, to find and neutralise the Moriarty threat.  Sherlock had discussed the plans with him, that while John and Mary were away on 'holiday' - and Sherlock's voice always choked up just slightly on those words, _always -_ he would begin an intricate plan that revealed himself as a falling off the wagon addict, cultivate relationships with some of the seedier side of London, and allow enough time to pass to make it wholly believable.

Of more pressing consideration now that they had survived the ceremony, lay in making this as plausible as possible, and then dealing with the reception.  John tried to lean convincingly into Mary as the photographer fussed at all of them.  "Groom and Best Man, please," he'd cued them, and the best they could do, under scrutiny from seemingly everyone milling about outside the cathedral, was for Sherlock to wriggle the back of his knuckles just briefly into John's arm.  It was comforting and frightening at the same time.  It would be quite a bit of time until they would be together again, and it would be much more difficult to pull off, at least with any level of real intimacy - until it was over.

Tedious photos:  reenactment of the kiss, Mary and John posed, with and without the wedding party, the confetti.  Mary and the bridesmaids.  John and Sherlock.  Hat on, hat off, hat tucked up over their chest, and the grin on John's face would later be telling in that photo particularly, as Sherlock muttered just barely under his breath, "bloody hat!" just before the photo was snapped.  He was still fussing about the confetti in his auburn curls as they were seated in the wedding hall at the front table as the reception kicked off.  John had never quite felt so put upon to perform, with Mary to one side and Sherlock to his other.  And when he thought the stress was mounting too high and he needed a moment to regroup, he decided to plunge ahead, in for a penny and all that.  Ignoring Sherlock completely, he leaned in toward Mary to say something inane while brushing a stray piece of confetti from the intricate fabric of her dress sleeve, and he furrowed his brow toward the seam.

"What's wrong?" she asked him, low, their heads close together.

"Couple loose stitches here, or something?"  He looked then shrugged.  "Can't see anything anyway, it's fine."

And when she checked herself, as he knew she would, the next few stitches gave, as he'd snipped them a few days ago, when the plan hatched, just barely in case he decided he needed a few minutes.  John knew her well enough to know that it would annoy her, to have something out of place just _unacceptable_.  Mary leaned then over toward Janine, asked something about a sewing kit, and when she was carrying nothing, apologetically, as expected, they soon excused themselves to one of the bridal rooms for some repair work.  "Maybe Molly might have something," he offered, already knowing she carried one, from a meaningless and somewhat off-hand repair job she'd done for someone at one of their get-togethers a while ago

It was actually from that event that the idea had grown to John, and although it was risky, he couldn't consider involving anyone else for fear it would backfire and get somehow mentioned to Mary later.  He wanted a few minutes, a few _safe_  and alone minutes, had orchestrated it on his own.  He stood as the women made their unrushed exit, with Janine moving first to Molly, who nodded emphatically, while Mary moved to the entry way, and he accompanied her out of the room, then watching as the three of them'd disappeared down a hallway and the door closed behind them.  He breathed deep, already feeling somewhat better.  A few minutes, indeed, _God how he needed them_!

He'd already cued up a text message, and hit send discreetly, turned his steps across the building in a different direction.   **Meet me in the anteroom by the back door.**

The room John'd scoped out ahead of time and then chosen was small, windowless, save for a high skylight, a storage room, and as Sherlock entered moments later, balance seemed to be restored as the two of them met again, the periphery of people and situations sealed off through the surreal escape.

"Are you all right?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course."

"What is this about?"

"Us."  He explained briefly about his wanting a moment, the sabotage of Mary's dress, buying them some minutes alone and completely away from prying eyes and curious well-wishers.  "I wanted a proper place to do this safely."  John had taken Sherlock's hands, holding his own self-consciously so that neither could see his wedding ring.  "I made a vow today that I have no intention of keeping," he began, quietly, saying words that were hard even though this was the bloody plan, "and this has to be so hard for you, watching this.  I didn't realise, until sitting there, how awful...  I don't think, if roles were reversed, that I'd be able to do it."

"Yes, you would.  There is simply no other good choice."

"Even so, I wanted, I _needed_..." and the words were obscured under lips crushed together, their bodies pressing together at the waist to avoid boutonnieres and their potentially injurious lapel pins.  John wrapped an arm snugly behind Sherlock, pulling them together at the waist.  His hand slid down the curve of Sherlock's bum, lifting, pulling, before sliding around front to the zip.  Despite the emotion of the day and the knowledge they had very limited time sequestered, Sherlock's erection throbbed under John's hand, and John angled his body away, sinking lower on bent knee, his intent clear.

"John."  Zipper lowered, trousers and pants slid just enough out of the way for access.  "You _can't.  Bloody hell!_ "  Sherlock's sharp inhale and moan of pleasure entwined with John's throaty moan as he took him in, all the way in.  "This is dangerous," Sherlock said in a low tone that spoke of both pleasure and sentiment.  A rumble from deep in John's chest as he attempted a laugh with his mouth full.  "Your _breath_ , John, you can't go back in with..."  And then John held up the folded linen handkerchief he'd already palmed from within his pocket.  "You're... oh god, don't... yeah, like that..."  Sherlock's voice was quiet, and his hand came toward John's shoulder, ready to push him away if necessary.  A hiss of breath, then a murmured, _"So close."_  John eased back, the handkerchief being put to good use along with both hands as Sherlock shuddered, his release intensely overwhelming.  When he regained ability to speak coherently, he looked down to find John smirking at him.  "God, that was..."

"I know."  John binned the handkerchief, stood.  "You should put yourself back together, my friend."  And while Sherlock was still adjusting the formalwear, John stepped close again, kissed him soundly, strong jawlines coming together and a serious touch of his hand along his face, thumb brushing over his lower lip as if memorizing it for the future.  It was a gesture of commitment and one of farewell, bittersweet for them both.  John eased from the room, leaving Sherlock to follow a moment or two later, the meeting a success, one that was worth the risk, something John would carry with him and he hoped Sherlock would as well.  John was seated, outwardly casual, and had been there long enough to have relaxed, when Mary and Janine returned.  "All fixed?"

"Of course, Molly took care of it, no problem."  The newlyweds picked up their champagne flutes, and had just clicked them together when Sherlock returned to take his seat.  John sipped, the champagne tasting a little bitter on his tongue.  He hated the dichotomy of the connection he felt on a visceral level with Sherlock contrasted with the one-ness he now showed with Mary, the whole focus of the day, in his mind, a sham.

Sherlock had prepared his speech but refused to let John hear it or read any of his notes.  He had, however, cautioned John that he would do well to remember that it was primarily a performance with a few very well chosen words of truth and that John would recognise them as such when Sherlock spoke them.  And when Sherlock regaled the crowd with the declaration of them having a lifetime ahead to prove that he and Mary would never let him down, John felt the very beginnings of a fearful stirring within, that they were embarking on a very dangerous endeavor.

The violin piece was nearly at the end of the evening, where Sherlock took the stage to play the waltz he'd composed.  His eyes took in John there, elegant as he danced, if somewhat stiff despite all the practicing they'd managed to get in.  Unfortunately  the practicing often led to other more fun but less productive activities, but Sherlock was still pleased as he watched from behind his instrument.  The music he'd folded, sealed in an envelope, scrawled the names Dr. and Mrs. Watson across it, with bile in his throat.  Mary had been quick to watch him as he began to speak, introducing the piece, making his promise.  Her arched eyebrow was clearly meant to remind him, as she'd mentioned earlier, that 'neither of us was the first' along with the veiled threat of her staking her claim on the man.  He chose carefully the words he used then, in outing her pregnancy publicly by mentioning "the three of them" and then stumbling over the words, taking it back, a mis-speak, and even from the front of the room he could see John bristle, swallow hard, his body tone so tensed and uncomfortable.  He felt not at all badly about it, calling their poker hands, as it were.  Time to keep moving, even if it cost John some awkwardness.

Finding them after that pronouncement, then standing there while they had quite the silly laugh over a previously unknown, if not certainly unmentioned pregnancy, and it was good, Sherlock thought then, that he had not clued John in that he was going to do that.  The shock and reaction had been spot on and very natural.  And as the dancing came back in, music swelling, Sherlock left the violin on the stage, donned the coat, left the building as planned.  Without saying goodbye, without even a glance in John's direction.  It was, he told himself, better this way.

John was working equally hard at maintaining the status quo, and he finished up the dance with Mary, begged a moment to catch his breath (and catch his mobile), and she moved on. 

**He's just left through the south exit.  He's ready for pick up, as agreed.  That car better be bloody close.  JW**

**I will text when we have him.  MH**

It seemed a long period of time before John's mobile vibrated again.   **He has been secured and is on his way to me.  I will keep tabs on him.  MH**  

It was kind of implied that Mycroft left off the words 'until you can do it again.' 

John slid to the side of the dance floor, watching Mary at the bar.  She'd switched to sparkling water since Sherlock had outed her pregnancy.  Scanning the room in what he hoped was a casual glance, he noted David seated at one of the tables, his head down but his eyes lifted up as he looked at Mary, and John snapped his gaze over in time to see Mary smile and incline her head.  John worked his way across the room, knowing he'd missed something, an exchange of some sort, but he made a point to chat with a few acquaintances.  The smile she'd given David was disturbing, because, unlike most of the smiling she'd done so far that day, that was one that actually reached her eyes.

John was comfortable on the periphery of the room, the whole evening having taken on a different flavor now that Sherlock had left the building.  He stood, just taking in the enormity of the day, pleased for the most part that he and Sherlock had risen to the occasion.  He was, however, a bit concerned at the impending tedium and difficult tasks in front of Sherlock, the nature of his impending demands of various substances he would use.  John's eyes landed, as he considered the beauty and depth of the personally written waltz, on the very violin that Sherlock had left at the front of the room.  He felt in his pocket for a pen, dashed a quick note, hastily scribbled words, _thank you for a fantastic performance_ , placed it casually in the case as he strolled about, chatting with a mate here and there.  One final text to Sherlock's brother for the night:   **Send someone to get the violin, too please, he left it behind.**  

++

They'd agreed that interactions by text message needed to be minimal if at all, and John felt the loss acutely the first few days of the honeymoon.  He tried to feign fatigue to account for the melancholy that had settled over him, although now that Mary's pregnancy was known, she had good reason to be quiet as well.  The honeymoon suite he'd booked was small, but had an ensuite, and they settled into a somewhat impersonal routine of reading, napping on the beach, sharing observations about the wedding, or discussing the newly hatched twist a baby would add to their lives.  Mostly it was snippets about the wedding, the guests, the experience.  Mary hoped out loud more than once that she'd certainly not expected the photographer drama they'd had and she bloody well wanted good pictures anyway.  She talked very little about Major Sholto other than for her to chastise John just a bit for inviting him in the first place if he was only going to cause problems.  Her mobile buzzed a bit late one evening, and she claimed it was Janine then disappeared for "just a quick step in the moonlight."  When John offered to accompany her, she quickly assured him she'd only be a moment.  John's suspicions, which he confirmed later when he managed to quickly view her phone, was that the texts were from an unknown number.  It was definitely not from a known contact and Janine was definitely in her address book.  He found no other unnamed contacts, and was rather suspicious that David may have been the one.

He composed a few texts in his head, denying himself the outlet to send them, things that Sherlock would find amusing or even just a quirky take on something going on.  John took a deep breath, reminded himself that he and Sherlock had gone longer than this, that he would resist, and that he needed to get a grip on himself.

When Mary returned, she was a bit keyed up, said the walk had been very nice, and that the manager at the desk had handed her the bottle of Jameson whiskey that she was now carrying.   _Jameson_.

"Oi, whiskey, is it?  That's nice stuff.  Who's it from?" he asked, not wanting to look too anxious.

She checked the tag.  "Some travel agent, I didn't realise you used one?  That's odd."

John shrugged.  "I didn't think I had.  Must've been where I made the reservations."  He stood up then, came up behind her, "But I'm not letting good whiskey go to waste, sorry you can't join me."  He let his hands brush against her arms, heart definitely not in it.   _Jameson_ , it had to be deliberate.

"Ugh, then," she said in mock distaste, "Kiss me now, then because I hate the taste of it afterward."

Kinder words, John thought, had not been spoken in a long time.  He poured himself a drink, settled into the bed with her, TV on and a movie in front of them.  It wasn't long before she'd fallen asleep and he got a moment to check out the delivery tag as he let the whiskey work its magic numbing on his brain.  The travel agent name was simply W. Scott, Ltd, and the marketing slogan at the bottom, simply, "surprise someone you love"  John took a deep breath, looked away, recalling the words, 'surprise me,' in the restaurant.

John waited another few days, congratulating himself on his restraint, and they returned to London with a minimal of fuss.  Mary had a few additional days off, and John was scheduled to work.  And, he thought, he was looking forward to it more than he should, just to get away.

The staff meeting was short, sweet, and the day moderately scheduled, so John had a few moments to himself, enjoying his office and the peace it represented.  With a slight laugh, he congratulated himself on waiting until after lunchtime before sending a text.

**Arrived home fine.  Hope you're ok.**

A few hours later, he sent another:   **Thanks for the Jameson**

A response came back almost immediately to that one, **why the hell r u up so early**

John was alarmed, just a bit, at the lack of punctuation, capitalization, and signature.  After the next patient, he texted Mycroft.

**Are things progressing according to plan?**

**He is fully immersed.  Most coherent at suppertime.  Best to let things unfold as planned, Dr. Watson.  Regards, MH**

It was a chastising text message, John could sense the vibes as he read.  The thought of the drug use made John slightly queasy, but in trying to do the noble thing, he picked up Thai food on his way home.  He was already through the door when he remembered that Mary didn't care for it.  It did not start off the evening well, and before long he was looking for an excuse, any excuse, to get himself out of the house.  The self-pitying side fussed that he didn't really sign up for this, this was more than he bargained for even as the rational side of him knew the plan and should have known better than to think it wasn't going to be miserable from time to time.  When Mary turned down his offer to go pick her up something she would enjoy, she huffed and excused herself to bed.  While he appreciated the calm, he did some thinking.  It was time to get smarter about what was going on, step up his game, and stay ahead of the action.  It was time for some _Captain Watson control_.

++

Before leaving for work, John paused at Mary's side.  "I'm thinking of meeting Greg for drinks after work."  Mary shrugged, sipped her tea, shook out the paper as she more or less ignored John.  "Want me to come home first?  I can do that if you want."

"Kind of silly," she said, idly.  "I'm fine, John, really.  Just..." and she looked down, brushed her hand over her long tee shirt that accented her rounding belly.  "Just going to lay low today."  Now that everyone knew, she no longer had to hide her rounding shape, although it was rather obvious now.  She was only thinking she was a few months along, perhaps, but John wondered if it wasn't more than that.

From the office, John did indeed make contact with Greg and asked him to meet.  "Can't tonight, mate.  Headed out for conference tonight and tomorrow.  Maybe Monday?"

John's quick digging about the police trainings had paid off.  "Oh, sure.  Have fun, you're entitled to get out of London for an evening."

Lestrade acknowledged the statement, hesitantly spoke John's name again, then asked tentatively, "Have you seen Sherlock?"

"No, have you?" John forced the casual tone of his voice.

"Maybe you should give him a call, stop over or something.  Last I saw him he was with a rough crowd, and didn't look too good."

After work, John took the tube toward Baker Street, and his mobile sounded.

 **He's not there, John.** Bloody tracking in his mobile, he thought, his jaw clenching.

**Piss off, Mycroft.**

John let himself into the flat, and found it chilly and uncared for.  He sent off a text, then, to Sherlock, **Free?**

 There was an eternal ellipsis, followed by nothing, another round of ellipsis.  John locked the flat again, knocked on Mrs. Hudson's door only to find her out.

His mobile sounded then, simply an address.   **815 E. Cottage Ln. $**

 John looked up the address on his mobile, it wasn't too far, and he headed there.

The address led him to a spot between two buildings, very clearly an 813 and an 819.  John considered the deliberateness of the text and the signature, scanned the street.  It was only a moment until he spotted the familiar silhouette, lit cigarette, collar up, curls, blending in to the surroundings with an understated flair.  The cigarette smoking would possibly be problematic, as both the bar and Lestrade, John's alibi, were _non-smoking_.  John headed in his direction, not too fast, and finally was close enough to get a good look at him.

"Doing ok?" John asked, and they regarded each other quietly for a few.  "You can put that out now."

"In a minute."  He inhaled, obviously savouring the pleasure in direct defiance of John's glare, then put it out, binned it safely.  "You?"

"Not great, in truth."  He didn't want to talk about Mary or the difficulties, the lies, the separation from his preferred companion.  "Got a place in mind?"

"I do at that," and he pulled a key from his jacket.  "Borrowing an office tonight."  Half a block further, and he unlocked a door, entered.  It was a financial advisory firm.  "How long do you have?"

"A while."  John hedged, hands in his pockets.  "Whose is this?"

He left the lights out but locked the door behind them, then took John's hand.  Street lights through the window made slight illumination as Sherlock ran a hand along the wall until reaching an interior room, then flicked on a lamp.  It was a lounge with couch, small table.  Sherlock had apparently already been there, as there was a small bag of shopping there, backpack, and a laptop.  "Friend who is out of the country the remainder of the month.  Crashing here when I can.  Sort of got permission, told him I'd check on the place from time to time."  There was a small grin then, and John finally took a moment to get a good look at Sherlock to see how he was faring.

Thinner, tired, and stressed he could see right off.  But he was obviously showering despite the few days' growth of stubble that Sherlock typically hated.  He was wearing worn, relaxed denims, slightly frayed, along with trainers and a pullover shirt.  The jacket was not the typical Belstaff, but a long similarly styled, less pompous.  His hair was long but still looked enticing, and it was actually as John took that in that he'd cross the room to stand near, letting his hands come up along his jaw, brush the hair from his ear.  The touch, fingertips to face, was John's undoing, and he leaned in even as Sherlock's arms came quickly, abruptly around him.  It was hard to gauge who was more frantic between the two of them, as they pressed in together, hard, pulling back only enough for hands to seek clothing removal, belts and buckles and buttons and, in Sherlock's case which was definitely a first for John, a drawstring waistband, the typical trousers obviously avoided and the more casual gear chosen.  He reached inside, finding hardness and maleness and impatient desire.

Heavy breathing, hands seeking and caressing and then becoming more urgent, when Sherlock moved to kneel before John, his mouth moving toward him, John steadied him from doing so, his lips finding that sensitive place behind Sherlock's ear, whispered that he didn't have to.

"I'm presuming, however, that you don't wish to return home sticky or too disheveled to pass a cursory inspection, if needed."  Knowing the words would be somewhat depressing, not to mention deflating, Sherlock smiled, tweaking a nipple through John's open shirt, and added, "And I want to."  So, with fingers pressing in and John completely engulfed in decadent suction, he forgot his misgivings and was lost in the cleverness of Sherlock's oral skills, the heat and the building, these stolen moments of pleasure.  It was quick, too quick, but John consoled himself it had also been a relatively long time, and he moved as if to do the same, offering his mouth.

Sherlock was rather emphatic that he was not okay with it, moving minutely out of John's reach.  "What?"

He simply shook his head, glanced quickly at John before lowering his eyes.  "Unless you want to give head through protection."  John all but froze, grateful that breathing was indeed an automatic muscle function most of the time.  "Thanks, I mean, but, ..." and John could all but tell that Sherlock at that moment made the decision to just plunge ahead, "I'm working on my positive, documented, rather publicly reported drug screen."  He stated things matter of factly.  "I just thought you should know, is all."

There was tightness in John's chest and he nodded, "Are you, _now_?"

"Not today, just, I don't want you to."  He glanced down at the tented front of his track pants.  "Just, maybe, your _hand_?  And god, just being here with you is okay, I can take care of it later if you don't want to."

But John was already shaking his head, reaching out with now somewhat saddened emotions but knowing they had limited time, limited access, limited options.  Sherlock produced a flannel at the opportune moment, gasped much more quietly than usual, sank into a chair to catch his wind.

There was an underlying melancholy-ness in the room.  Once they'd righted clothing and relaxed, tension mostly eased on one level anyway, John addressed it.  "This will be worth it, right?"

"Of course.  Once we assure Moriarty is solved, whoever he is, whatever the connection is to... _her_ , things should de-escalate again."  Even from sitting across in a darkened room, the heavy swallow he executed was visible.  "But we still feel, Mycroft and I, that you are not safe.  I am not safe.  So I want to let you in on the next part of the plan."

Sherlock then talked about Isaac Whitney, John's neighbour's son, and the likelihood that, with his drug tendencies, was going to open a door for them very soon.

++ 

 It was many days later when John received a surprising, very unexpected, borderline _alarming_ text.  He was doing paperwork at his desk, over lunch, trying to catch up on a few incomplete files.

**I think I might have a girlfriend. Wanted to let you know.  $**

**WTF are you on about?**

**It's temporary. $**

**You're cheating on me?**

There was no answer, and John wished perhaps he'd just let it alone, responded some other way.  Committed, then, John sent off another question mark as a prompt, then after a minute, added,

**And wait, a woman ;-)**

**Very good, John, the word girlfriend is gender specific. And I could fire the same two questions back at you if I was feeling churlish. $**

**This is bloody different and you know it.**

**You're having a baby with someone else. $**

**I guess we don't actually know that for sure yet, do we?**

**The mere fact that you could be is significant. $**

**fact is that occurred almost 7 months ago?**

**And hasn't happened since?  I'm not an idiot. $**

John wasn't sure how to respond to that, hesitated, typed a few ideas, deleted them, considered the cameras at the flat he shared with Mary, and finally gave up.  His mobile pinged a few minutes later.  

**I'm sorry. $**

**I'm sorry too.**

A moment later, **I know the plan. Waiting does not come easily. $**

He was interrupted by a knock on his office door, then two phone calls, and a quick trip to the loo.  By the time John was able to check his mobile again another text had come through.  

**And neither does sharing. $**

**I know.  I hate it too.  I'd change it if I could.**

**Swing by the flat tomorrow? $**

**++**

John didn't get the chance, as Mrs. Whitney arrived with the distress call about her son, and he and Mary had driven over to the crack den.

John had perhaps inflicted more pain on Billy than he'd been intending to, in order to gain access to the upper room where both Isaac and Sherlock were cavorting with their substance-addicted acquaintances.  Sherlock had warned him that Billy was rather clueless, and not privy to the details of the liaison that was planned, so John would have to rely on his wits and have a few back-up ideas in case they were needed in order to get upstairs to Sherlock.  And John, thanks to the cryptic text messages, knew exactly where Sherlock was in relation to Isaac.

"Have you come for me too?"  The words still startled him, spoken from a prone and rather unkempt form on a mattress in the crack den as John approached Isaac.

John had been well aware of Sherlock's location in the room, the previous text message revealing proximity to the window, of course, and he had deliberately put his back to Sherlock as he crouched down to talk to Isaac.  

It felt like a long time since they'd been in the same physical location.  

John's glance over his shoulder, supposed to be one of shock and surprise, ended up being quite genuine as he took in the disheveled appearance, the gaunt cheeks, and the red-rimmed eyes.   _High_.  Under the influence.  The dullness of his blue eyes was a complete giveaway, though.  His clothing, John saw as they stood, was so completely out of character - did the man even own dirty track pants and baggy threadbare sweatshirts? - that John couldn't help but be impressed as he took in the whole picture - part deception, but a larger part very real.  Sherlock, in deference to John's voiced concerns when Sherlock had briefed him, had left the infamous 'list' with one corner of the paper poking slightly out of his hoodie pocket.  John rustled Isaac awake, led the way down the stairs to where both Mary and the automobile were waiting.

Mary was genuinely shocked to see that Sherlock accompanied John and Isaac back to the car, and she began to be slightly annoyed when Billy got in the car, too.  It was helpful, though, John thought, that Mary was present for John to threaten Sherlock with a urine drug screen upon the onset of their trek to the hospital.  And Billy?  Billy was likely to be rather helpful, and John just barely happened to catch the wink exchanged between Sherlock and him even as Billy rolled his eyes gesturing to his injured wrist.

Molly, of course, had not been briefed on this part of the plan, and John stood there taking grief about the supposed seven pounds he'd gained (when in actuality is was closer to ten, much to his dismay and tendency to indulge in stress-eating).  The face slap, delivered by one very annoyed pathologist upon seeing positive drug testing for various substances, triggered several reactions in John - first, agreement that it was unacceptable, and second, the desire to hold, pressing a hand to the reddened cheek, offer comfort and support.  And third, impatience for this ruse to run it's course and be _over_.

++

It was an odd conglomeration of people in Baker Street later that morning, with Mycroft, a few folks including Lestrade searching for drugs - all orchestrated, of course, but Sherlock was still able to turn on a rather good fussing spell at the intrusion.  Mycroft was, John decided, well suited to giving his brother grief no matter the circumstance.  

John only had a few minutes between when they all left and Janine emerged from the bedroom.  John felt rather grateful that he'd at least been partially warned, but watching Sherlock and Janine manoeuver the flat was disconcerting to say the least.  They'd barely made plans for dinner with he and Mary (and John knew he would never be able to pull that off judging by the degree of nausea he was suffering from even just seeing Janine slip into the shower with Sherlock).  A security detail came, then, and Magnussen showed up, which was apparently unrecognised as Sherlock seemed unprepared.  This was the name that kept coming to the top of the pile, from Lady Smallwood's request, to Mycroft developing additional material on the man, and all of them scouring for details that connected him to either Moriarty or Mary.

John was still shaking his head as Sherlock started his big brain searching for the deeper meaning.  John was still focused on something else.  "Even so, urinating in the fireplace...  I mean, come on Sherlock, even _animals_ go outside."

"Yes, but the paperwork, John, the letters.  He knows peoples _pressure points_.  He is both dangerous and not to be underestimated."

 ++

Many things transpired and orbited around Magnussen - the break-in with Sherlock holding an engagement ring, the olfactory trigger for both of them of the damn cologne Mary was fond of, Clair de la lune.  They both recognised it and knew who had been there.  A bullet was fired, of some surprise to both of them, but once it had happened, John knew of course, immediately, who had pulled the trigger.  John felt the next few hours into days as surreal, with Sherlock's injury and, finally, pulling through.  And even as Sherlock survived, Mycroft was rigging surveillance in his hospital room, so when Mary insisted through Sherlock's drug induced haze, "You don't tell him!" it was all quite properly monitored and recorded.  A warning text message clued John in that Sherlock was leaving the hospital against medical advice, and to prepare for something of a showdown with Mary.  Mycroft had set up quite well, the speakers, lighting, chair, even fluffing John's hair up to mimic the profile of Sherlock in the wheelchair (of course, the coat collar popped up was the main deception).  The hallway, the side of Mary that he hadn't specifically seen but had suspected, became all John could see, with Sherlock baiting her, offering himself up, and even as he did so, protecting John as much as he could.

John knew things would never be the same once Mary had confessed, "John can't ever know that I lied to him, it would break him and I would lose him forever."

John would think immediately, and later, of Mary's impression about her being able to 'break' him, knew that he was hiding well under his laid-back personae, that she was not as suspicious as perhaps she could be.  It was hurtful even as he knew that it was beneficial.

Back in the flat later, John wanted nothing more than to blurt all of it out and be done with it, but Sherlock's very life was in danger, and he watched the pallor of his skin even as Mary sat in the client's chair and John knew Sherlock was bleeding internally, knew that an ambulance had been summoned, only hoped it would arrive in time.  Even as Mary laid the flash drive on the table there in Baker Street, he was fully and completely distracted by the critical nature of Sherlock's impending collapse.  It was frustration, then, when he yelled, "Why is everything my fault?" and as Mary mentioned to him that he was not to read the drive in her presence because he wouldn't love her when he was finished, he nearly bit a hole in his tongue to avoid telling her that it was already too late for that.  And her spending the rest of her life in prison related to something Magnussen knew, actually, might suit John just fine if it came to that.

++ 

When Sherlock was discharged from the hospital a week or so later, bleeding finally stopped and the pericardial drain that had been placed to prevent further development of the effusion from recurring, was finally discontinued so Sherlock and John spent the first night at Baker Street in the sitting room, where it was easier for Sherlock to rest upright.  John had phoned Mary curtly to tell her he was stopping by to pick up some clothing so that he could be present on Baker Street where he was needed.  When she tried to engage him even slightly more, he cut her off, hung up.

She wasn't home when he stopped by, running in and out, while Sherlock was resting on the couch.  John returned to relieve Mrs. Hudson with a minimal of fuss, and then John guarded his patient with a fierceness and protectiveness he hadn't felt in quite a while, probably since Harry had struggled in her teen years.

Sherlock's tired eyes took in the suitcase, looked over at John, and summoned enough energy to bestow a small yet sad smile in that direction.

"Mycroft can..."

John cut him off.  "No."

"Are you..."

"No.  I'm staying.  And if you throw me out, I'll stay at Greg's.  Or a hotel.  Come to think of it, you're in no position to throw me out.  I'm here where I belong."   John had a bit too much restless energy to be contained, and finally stood, flitted about the room, descended on Sherlock like a moth to flame, circling gently, the touch of his fingers against the pale face soft and tentative.  "Do you need pain medicine?"  Sherlock's brow creased, considering, and he shook his head slightly.  "Dinner?"

"No, John."

"You think a few pillows to elevate your head, and you could sleep in the bedroom tonight?"

"Probably.  You'll join me?"

There was a long moment of eye contact.  "Try to keep me away."

Sherlock took a deep breath, sighed, relief evident on his face.  "That would be nice.  It's been a long time."

"No funny business."

"I wasn't suggesting any.  The pain is still rather... limiting."

John stood, flipped on a few lights, leaving the door open even as he turned down the bed in preparation.  Sherlock was looking rather pale and weak there in the sitting room as John returned, offered out a hand.  Together, slowly, they traversed the hallway, and John paused at the door of the loo while trying not to smother Sherlock as he tended to things there.  He was moving slowly by the time he stopped just prior to the bed, hunched over gingerly as he stood waiting for assistance.  

"You ok?" John asked quietly, helping him out of dressing gown and slippers.

"The change in position makes for hard breathing."

"What can I...?"

"The light.  And join me."  He looked askance at the angle of the pillow.  "Another might be helpful."  They settled pillows as well as they could, and Sherlock leaned back, his breathing deliberate, slightly labored, unable to lean back, his shoulders heaving just slightly as he worked to calm his sore body.

In short order, John had doused the lights and prepared to join Sherlock in the bed.  His ribs must have rubbed together sorely as he sat, changed position, and John helped swing his feet into bed.  Initially, the level of recline was too low, and he scrabbled at John, looking for more air and more room for rib expansion, less pain, and John placed another pillow carefully behind him.  It took several minutes of deliberate, slow, relaxed, intentional breathing, the two of them together in the faint light from the bedside lamp.  

The dim streetlamps gave a small amount of glow through the curtain, and as their eyes adjusted to the light, John could see very clearly that Sherlock's eyes were still open and he was still uncomfortable.  "You sure about something for pain?"

"Oh, I want it, all right.  But none of that prescription shit," and the word choice was a clear sign of how uncomfortable Sherlock was, as he rarely swore (while John could still occasionally stoop to the colorful-ness of the military language he'd unfortunately lived years previously).

"It might take the edge off, you know."  John gingerly reached out a hand, splayed it across Sherlock's waist gently.  "I'm really sorry about what happened.  And I feel guilty, doubly so that I'd much rather be here, even like this, than ... at the other flat."  John wished he could trade places with Sherlock as he watched the discomfort.  "I'm terrible, I know."

"Yeah, well, I guess this proves that I'd go to great lengths" and he paused, breathing slowly, "to sleep with you too."  He was belly breathing, and John watched his aeration with a cautious eye, not caring for the muscle excursions that shouldn't be there.  "I think maybe something for pain, John."

Before he'd finished the sentence almost, John had the pain pills nearly in hand, held them out while Sherlock swallowed them.  They adjusted the pillows a bit, again, and the combination of pain medication, a more comfortable position, and the warm hand of the doctor monitoring his breathing seemed to, eventually, lull Sherlock to sleep.  But it was quite a bit before John was able to do the same.

Home, in bed, the two of them, right where they belonged.  And still a tangled web to navigate.  When either of them awoke that night, it was brief, seeking reassurance - and one time, Sherlock seeking the loo - and the comfort of the other's presence, the solidarity of the covers over them, of the warm body in the bed, breathing, heart beating, the synchrony of two separate people entwined as one, no matter what.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So we are completely deviating from reality from here on out. Clearly the show is not headed this direction, and this is not meant - at all - to be anything other than fantasy! But enjoy these odd scenes from season three.
> 
> Let me know if there are blatant holes or things missing, or even observations. I can almost guarantee that this will be the only piece I ever write that even barely attempts to follow the actual series plot.
> 
> We still have Appledore to consider, and the tarmac, and scenes from the plane. And there's a good confrontation already written from the car! The epilogue is what's now waking me up at night, the fun, the romance - and the reveal about whose baby keeps getting mentioned!


	8. Worth It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I was ready to wrap this up, tie up some things from the tarmac and some speculation on some of the interpersonal dynamics - and then _plot happened_. Seriously? Arrgh, I was ready to spit, polish, and post!
> 
> Heed the new tags please! Sorry for the oversight.

John picked up the journal that hadn't held his attention yesterday and was unlikely to today as well.  The Christmas decorations had been taken down, not that Mary had done much decorating in his absence, but John had added his muscle to the boxes that were now in the storage closet.  He wanted to shake the magazine, throw it across the room, storm out in frustration.  There had been no news yet, from Mycroft.  The hearing had to be over by now, and not knowing was driving John round the bend.

"She's kicking something awful.  I don't think she liked my pregnancy yoga class today," Mary said quietly.  She'd been going a couple of times a week now, liking it, as did John, who was grateful for the time spent apart, a blessing.  "I think I'm going to go for a walk."

He swallowed, wishing things were different and knowing Mary probably did, too.  Suck it up, Watson.  "Want company?"

The hurt look she tried to hide as she looked over at John, trying to gauge the sincerity of his offer.  "I would, but don't feel obligated."  There was awkwardness and knowledge all around that the words skittered across the surface of all that was underneath, a crackle in the top layer of dangerously thin ice.  "I mean, you don't have to."

He wanted to pinch the bridge of his nose in aggravation.  "Fresh air sounds nice, actually."

Their flat was on a lesser-traveled street, and John found himself wondering if Mycroft was watching some of the surveillance footage as they stepped down the kerb.  "I guess it's the hearing that has you bothered?" she asked, flatly, more of an observation to let him know he was not actually good company.  John shrugged noncommittally.  "No news yet, I guess?"

"No.  But I don't know that they will let me know right off or not."

"I am still staggered that he shot Magnussen in the first place."  Mary took a deep breath, her hand trying to move the baby's position in her belly down and out from under her ribs.  "I mean, I appreciate ...  but he shouldn't have."

 _You shouldn't have, either_ , he didn't say.  "Quite right."  John berated himself, again, for not reacting more quickly when Sherlock aimed the gun, but he also knew that again, he'd been set up, played.  The terrible words Sherlock spoke, _tell Mary she's safe now_ , let John know that Mary was the excuse for the killing, and that she would also be the defence when the time came.

The air was brisk, and John had very little to say, very little he wanted to say, criticising himself that he'd come with her in the first place - pointless and irritating.

"I need to ask, when you said these were scripted words, what did that mean, exactly?"  Mary's tentative question was quiet, but John heard her very clearly, remembered them well.

++

_The problems of your past are your business. The problems of your future ... are my privilege._

++

It had been almost coercion on the parts of both Holmes brothers to get John to agree to Mary's needed presence on Christmas day at the elder Holmes' gathering.  He'd been assured it was the only way to hasten a resolution, if John would listen to Mary, to attempt forgiveness, to move past where they were presently.  And since Sherlock had recovered from the chest wound under the _personal_ attention of his physician, John enjoyed Baker Street and all its pleasures, but knew it couldn't last.

Sherlock looked at him pointedly at one point, and said that it was necessary to fan the flames a bit.  Vividly recalling the bonfire incident, John wished he could have found that funny, but he just didn't, asking instead if he could get some help on what to say.

He'd worked with Sherlock and a powerful online thesaurus to find the right words - a way to move past that terrible shooting, now that Sherlock'd healed up fairly well.  John had stayed at Baker Street up until Christmas day, and, if things fell together well, he would hereafter, until the final act was over, be back at the flat with Mary.  And he was _dreading_ it.

"I don't want to go," he'd said more than once, and on the second time, Sherlock threw up his hands in frustration.

"God, John.  You do hear Doctor Who in your voice, don't you, _Ten_?"  John did, of course, know the angst of the scene to which Sherlock referred, David Tennant and his infamous, painful portrayal of his final regeneration.  "There is no way to the end of the road but one step at a time, and this is the next one.  You would do well to appreciate the metaphor."

The words he'd settled on nearly made him choke on their delivery, until Sherlock reminded him of his performances all along, ever since that Christmas Eve previously when Sherlock had arrived on Baker Street.  His assurance that this was both necessary and attainable allowed John to get the words out that day, to Mary.  The words'd been punctuated by the tossing of the flash drive into the fireplace at Sherlock's parents, with words _also_ scripted.  John knew that there was a copy, although John refused to look at it and forbade Sherlock from discussing it with him, yet, although both he and his brother knew the contents.  They were in the sitting room where Mary quite clearly had heard Sherlock's mum complain loudly about the person who shot her son.  John'd met Sherlock's parents a few times, although never been introduced as anyone other than a flatmate, but he'd never wanted to hug any grown woman as much as he had right then, because he was pretty angry about it, too.  And the difference was that John knew exactly whom to blame.

++

John looked at Mary now, there on the kerb, remembering the struggle at their crafting and their delivery of those words, _problem, privilege_.  "Just what it sounds like.  I worked them out ahead of time.  That what went on before is behind us, and we will deal with what lies ahead."

"Was it a lie?"

John's mind scrambled for the best answer, decided on the one that would tick her off least while hinting at honesty, "I would like to mean them.  I'm trying."

Mary didn't acknowledge them verbally, just sort of frowned, looked away.  "I need to head back.  She's doing gymnastics on my bladder now."

"I'll be along."  John was having a terrible time getting excited about the baby, and Mary had fussed a few times about his reticence, accused him of not caring.  It had been all he could do to attend the scan they'd had a week or so back, finding out that Mary was carrying a girl, healthy, confirming due dates.  But he was reluctant and distant, she was completely correct about that.  And of course, he would remain that way until he knew the truth about whose it was.

++

Once John was back in the flat, later in the early evening, Mary was settling down in front of a movie, but minutes in, she was nodding off.  Before she was too deeply asleep, John touched her arm.  "We don't have those lemon biscuits, going to go pick up a few things, maybe run a few errands.  Want anything?"

"Mmmm."  She pulled the fleece blanket up to her chin.  "Maybe one of those croissants?"  John nodded, helping tuck the blanket in.

He zipped up his jacket, stepped from the flat, welcoming the calm that came along with getting away from her.  As he walked, he texted Mycroft, saying he was wondering if there was any news yet.  The message was undelivered, and John shrugged, knowing an update was a long shot anyway.  He did, actually, want lemon biscuits, so that part of the escape was not a complete lie.  As he approached the block that had the grocer on it, a car slid up alongside him, the tinted window sliding down.

"Dr. Watson, a word?"

Mycroft's voice, much more a summons than a request.  When the door opened, John didn't hesitate to climb inside, and the car drove off.  It was a far cry from their first meeting.

When Mycroft just sat, silent, moments ticking by.  John tried not to seethe.  "So...?" he finally put that out there.

"He wants to tell you in person."  

"Why didn't he come with you?"

"He sent me instead."

"Bully for all of you," he muttered.  "He's not free then."

"I will remind you that he shot an unarmed man, rather publicly."

John wanted to remind bloody Mycroft that people can be armed with much more harmful things than weapons, kept quiet about that.  "Well, what good are _you_ , then, if you can't help?"

"Dr. Watson.  I assure you, he would have been much worse off had I not already intervened."

When John moved as if to speak again, Mycroft simply held up his hand, and John spent the remainder of the short trip in frustrated silence.

The car dropped him off at a plain office building with a benign sign that simply had a few letters in front of the word industries.  A cover, obviously, a front.  Mycroft remained in the car as an escort arrived on foot to accompany John through a rather secure doorway system, down a randomly twisting hallway, and finally stopped outside a windowless suite.  When John looked for guidance, the man produced and used a secure key, then merely nodded and waited until John turned the knob, went inside.

Sherlock was seated on an upholstered couch in an institutionally decorated den, complete with bar, television, table set, and an efficiency kitchenette.  There was a bedroom visible through an open doorway, presumably a bathroom as well, looking inhabited to a degree with a few bags, clothing, computer, one of Sherlock's books on the cafe table.  He did not seem to be in an immediately talkative mood, either, looking over at John with an unreadable expression.  The pale blue eyes were rather resolute, and not fearful.  Resigned, perhaps, and that made John mildly nervous.

"Seems the government doesn't take kindly to murder, even if a person deserves it," he said as John waited on still feet, inside the closed door and across the room.  "I'm off on a mission to help repay my debt, courtesy of my brother."

"Dangerous, then."  John could only imagine Mycroft bargaining for Sherlock's life with Sherlock's life - and the irony was not lost on him.  Sherlock had done the same thing from the roof of Bart's.

He didn't answer that directly.  "I could never do prison.  This was only possible due to the set up of that thwarted explosion in the tube."  John nodded, remembering, having wondered at the time exactly what Mycroft had been doing.  Apparently, he thought, finding ways to off-set unpalatable prison time.  It was paying it forward by fraud, technically.

"Moriarty, then?"

"Silent.  Completely and utterly silent.  Perhaps the connection with Magnussen was contrived, that Moriarty planted that information just to get him in trouble."  He stretched, angled his head, and the motion was so typical that John couldn't help but wonder how difficult the day had been for him.  Sherlock continued, "Get rid of an enemy."

"Get you into danger, more like."

Shrugging, Sherlock stretched out long legs onto the table in front of him, leaning back, his long lined body seemingly endless as John watched, admired, nervously awaiting the rest, sensing the unease and discomfort in both of the Holmes brothers.  "We had hoped David would have been more of a player."

"So what is this, then?  My being here."

"I leave tomorrow.  This is goodbye."

The wave of nausea that hit John was powerful, his mouth salivating ominously, the roil in his gut disturbing as the thought of a longer separation took root.  "How long?"

Sherlock sighed, making sure John could see.  "I am not answering that, John.  I can't.  But this is not forever, that is certain.  You are going to have to trust me, and trust Mycroft, that there are a few contingency plans already embedded in places that are ready to go."

"You are asking me to trust you?  That's almost funny, coming from you.  Pathetic, more like it."  John began resigning himself to the backseat, to that part of the goings on where he'd been relegated to observer, forced to be content with the drips and drabs of information, of being excluded and kept in the dark whenever it suited them.   _Bloody control freaks_.  "I don't trust you.  I trust your brother even less.  But, like the rest of this bloody nightmare, my options are limited."

"You do have a choice - you could walk away."  John saw then that Sherlock was indeed afraid that John was going to do just that.  This wasn't easy, John knew, on Sherlock either.  He was probably a pawn, a game piece, as well.  "No one would blame you."

He found mobility, then, crossed to sit next to Sherlock, not touching, but focused.  "I'm not going anywhere.  I'll wait, long as it takes."  The spoken words were true.  The deep breath that Sherlock took then seemed to relax him a little.  John was always a bit surprised when Sherlock's insecurity reared its ugly head, and to him, it was confirmation that now was the time to action.  It made his blood run cold, like when the sirens sounded in the middle of the night in Kandahar.  "Not that I'm not royally ticked at being left out.  Again.  But you told me it would be worth it - is that still true?"

"Yes, John."

"Then let me know how to help.  And we'll get through this, too."

"Will you and Mary come see me off at the airstrip tomorrow?"

John quickly identified the intentional request that he not come alone, although he didn't want to ask why and was already sure this was another set up of sorts.  "I will, certainly.  We will, if possible."

"I was not looking forward to saying goodbye without seeing you privately first.  Tomorrow will be another performance, but now somewhat easier."  Sherlock reached out a thumb, traced it over John's lip.  "I dreamt of you with that damned mustache again."  John could feel his skin flush under Sherlock's attention, under his skin to skin contact, even just a thumb-tip to mouth.

"Well, it's truly gone, and not coming back, I wouldn't want to look too much older than you.  Although I can't control what you dream about."  The thumb pressed hard against John's mouth, silencing the final words.  Of their own accord, John's eyes closed and he leaned ever so slightly against Sherlock's hand.  There was a shift on the couch as Sherlock moved closer, his body pressing against John's and pushing him down underneath him.  "I don't have a lot of time."

"I know.  But they're picking up your shopping for you."

"Biscuits and ..."

"A croissant, yes, we know."  John made a conscious decision to bloody ignore the reference to the surveillance over him and Mary at the flat.  He may have understood it, but he certainly didn't have to like it.

Sherlock wriggled overtop John until they were nearly flush with each other, his mouth exploring and tasting what he could reach, from buttoned collar and downward, his hands unveiling, opening, and his mouth following.  Belt, zipper discovered, and John lifted his hip to allow for better access, and Sherlock soon found that spot that made John moan, the deep rumbley one from the back of his throat.  John's mind was torn between sadness and concern even as his body responded to the familiar touches and suckling and fingertips that probed and circled.  His orgasm was profound in that the release was spectacular and his chest ached a bit in sadness at the imminent changes.  While he was grateful there would be no prison time, he wasn't sure the uncertainty and possibility of physical danger was any better for him.  Neither, he reminded himself, would be good for the man in his arms.

Sherlock pressed back along John's chest again, a soft _ohmygod_ spoken whisper as John's hand reached down inside the trousers.  Sherlock was already very close, and John elbowed his frame down along Sherlock's body, intending on reciprocating when Sherlock grabbed a fistful of collar, thrust a few times against John's fist, and came.  His eyes closed and stayed that way as the pulsations continued for five, ten times and then ceased, sated.  They rearranged themselves so Sherlock was sitting up and John moved to straighten clothing.  He crossed the room to find a stack of napkins by the wetbar, returned to offer them to Sherlock, then crouched down to be eye level as Sherlock tended to the sticky mess left behind.  John's hand rested casually on Sherlock's leg, slid down, encountered something out of place.

"What the hell?"  He pulled back to get a better look at the ankle bracelet strap.  "Tracking device?"

"House arrest until I'm taken to get on the plane."  He flicked it with a disgruntled fingernail.  "Monitoring from there."

"What _is_ this place exactly, a detention cell?"

The thinning out of Sherlock's lips was all the answer John was going to get.  Sherlock binned the napkins, not meeting John's eye.

"Guess you're not able to leave the building?  Not accompanying me home, then."

"My instructions are that I am not able to leave the suite."

" _Worth it_ , you said.   _Trust you_ , you said."  John took a trembling breath and did _not_ add, _'this is my note, you said_ ,' but he was pretty sure Sherlock could read that in his face.

"Yes, and yes."   _And yes_ ; he could read John like an open book most of the time.

John noted the time on his mobile, sighed.  "God, sometimes all I want is the truth."

Sherlock looked at him carefully, seriously.  "Careful what you wish for."  The awkwardness was palpable, the words unspoken, the unease they were both feeling.  "It was good to see you."

John closed the distance, unwilling to end the evening without resolution to the prickly opposition, hoping to offer a bit of comfort.  His arms wrapped around the trim frame, and he drew Sherlock against him.  The solid chest against his own, palpable heart beating under his thin ribs, the expansion and retraction of normal breathing was both settling and calming.  They stood still for long minutes, each lost in their own minds, until John eased his hold.  "I should go.  Not that I want to, but," he shrugged, "it's probably time.  I will see you tomorrow."

"Until tomorrow, then."

Sherlock accompanied John to the door, tapped twice, and it was unlocked from the outside and then opened.  It hadn't occurred to John to notice that they'd both been locked _inside_ the suite.

The driver, without a word or bit of a smirk, tossed John a small box of mints, and drove off.  The car dropped John off at the end of the block, but it was an unnecessary precaution.  Mary had already gone to bed, left a hastily jotted note stating that, and ending with an unsigned "see you in the morning."  It was most definitely a veiled don't bother to join me message.  John thought to himself that he could very easily get on board with that request. 

++ 

The plane stood at the ready, and Mary at his elbow, while Sherlock laid out a few final cards, then turned one final time.  He looked at Mary, who was looking off in the distance, and then at John, who nodded.  Even though neither could speak it, both were profoundly grateful for the previous evenings chance to connect, to be assured they were in sync, to be more settled as this goodbye slid on by them.  Mary clung to John's arm as he watched Sherlock board the plane, the sun catching vividly on the chestnut highlighted curls.  John held his hand steady, still feeling the final handshake while palming the small slip of paper he'd been passed.  It went into his pocket as they climbed into the car, and he watched for opportunity to read it but found it impossible with Mary right there.  Minutes later, the radio they'd been tuned in to crackled in static, and then the voice sounded. The voice.   _Didjamissme?_  John had heard it enough times to recognise it even with the mechanical distortion.

Mary's reaction was one of pallor, of shock, and of voice thickening disbelief as she listened, tried to cover her responses.  John shook the cobwebs loose from his mind, and was one hundred percent certain that Mary had never heard Moriarty.  Ever.  That he knew of anyway.  Significant, because clearly she had, knew it, and was gobsmacked.

John's mobile sounded, then.  Mycroft requested them to return to the hangar, that an issue had arisen, that Sherlock would be returning.  Mary found her own smartphone, and began to search for online news about the voice, about the interesting and apparently pervasive hacking that had been done in other media sites as well.  As she did, John unfolded the note quickly:   _"not impaired, no heroics, play along, $"_

They met there, awaiting the plane's touch down, then the ventral airstair to be deployed.  Sherlock was sprawled in the seat, long legs splayed, his eyes were red-rimmed and watery, his respirations shallow and slow.  It was very comparable to the drug den in appearance, the muscle tone and the half-masted eyes, the evidence of substance abuse plain.  And if it hadn't been for the note, John would have never doubted that Sherlock had indeed overdosed.  The forewarning was the only thing holding him back from action, from calling 999, from checking a pulse and performing a thorough assessment.

It was then that Mary made her next mistake - she slid Sherlock's mobile from where he'd clearly been using it, and _unlocked_ it.  Not even John had ever hacked Sherlock's intricate password system.  He teased John endlessly about his own ease of choosing identifiable and breachable passwords even when John tried to get clever.  But hack Sherlock's mobile?  John didn't even think that Mycroft could have done it without inside information.  She was borderline mocking as she informed the group that he'd been reading over John's blog, from the earliest of days.

Conversation ranged then about substances, and John, looking closely, could see that Sherlock was indeed very much awake and alert underneath his stuporous act, the face, the expression, the muscle tone.  He approached while Mycroft was discussing the list but did not apprehend it as it was passed by him.  Mary rose to Mycroft's bait as he asked about MI-6 security, and John was careful not to look anywhere other than at Mary as she responded that she thought they should get some.  She was now using her own mobile, and had discovered what Mycroft was leading her toward.  John knew that Mycroft was pretty stoic, so even had he looked over, it would not have revealed anything.  Mary, obviously, had a mole somewhere, or had installed monitoring or surveillance data somewhere in order to get into places, even _government places_ , that should have been impenetrable.  It was almost an act of willful aggression.

 _Trust me_ , Sherlock had said, and John kept himself very still and quiet as he worked to do just that, mimicking Mycroft's non-reactive demeanor as the events there in the plane continued to play out.  He was quite aware that this moment, this staging, had been very deliberately set up and that it was about watching Mary, and about what would ultimately happen.

They reclined his seat, with Mary searching online for various clues they were dropping, and finally the decision to pursue Moriarty was made.  John was impressed with the believability of Sherlock's appearance to seem very impaired.  He looked it, he acted it.  It was reminiscent of what he'd looked like in the crack den with Isaac Whitney - blood shot red rimmed eyes, slurred speech, eyes half-mast, without the typical luster.  He certainly might have, John knew, had time to shoot up in the minutes between take-off and return, enough to be that completely impaired and under the influence.  But, he'd been fine on the tarmac as they said goodbye, that much John knew beyond the shadow of a doubt. 

Sherlock did a very convincing hallucinating, dream-like act, but soon it was obvious he was in decent shape to de-plane.  As they filed off, John reminded himself that, particularly now, he needed to stay completely in the game, a step ahead if possible, to be ready.  Mycroft's gentle reminder, to "Watch over him.  Please," seemed to imply that things were going to be different from here on, but John trusted the Holmes brothers just slightly more than Mary on some fronts.

The car awaiting, and Sherlock's stride was strong and confident, but John didn't think Mary had noticed, or else it mattered not at this point.  "Of course Moriarty is dead," he'd said, throwing out random statements and appearing much more alert and sharp-witted there by the car.  "I just went to the trouble of an overdose to figure it out."  And a moment later, "...and I know exactly what he's going to do next!"

++

Once the four of them were seated in the car, Mycroft tapped the partition and the driver started off.

"Mary," he started, "Mary _Watson_ , is it?" and John could see realisation dawn across her face, knowing something had changed.  "We have been watching, observing, found some discrepancies in your story, your allegiance, your connections.  Who are you working for?"  There was stony silence.  "You answer some questions, and then I will reciprocate in kind."  Mycroft cleared his throat then, his tone cool and businesslike, addressing her from where he was seated across from her.  When she turned questioning eyes to John, looking for some measure of support, he almost felt as if she were a complete stranger, there in the car.  A stranger carrying a stranger, he mused.  She did not often ever reach for him or even to be close enough to touch, but he shifted just slightly in the seat, moving his body completely away from her.  It was the slightest movement, but not lost on her.  He finally could feel the facade crumbling, and he was feeling free enough to avoid unnecessary contact.  He had touched her, he resolved, for the last time.  Their eyes lingered long enough for him to read her coldness, and then Mycroft spoke again, in a huffy, impatient tone.  "Explain, please, your level of security."

Unsmiling, and completely devoid of expression, she turned to face Mycroft.  Her response was only the slightest raise of an eyebrow at him.  A challenge, a stubbornness, defiance.

"Clearly, your orders are from somewhere outside of England."  He went on to succinctly describe the complicated set up of what they knew about her background, her connection with someone they identified as Moriarty, and then today, how she had tipped her hand, made her mistakes, of the hacking of Sherlock's phone and the supposed breach in MI-6 security, all carefully laid out like an unavoidable bear trap.  He spoke short sentences, used silence well, and let her know that the game, _her game_ , was now up.

Silence.

Mycroft was nonplussed.  "Not speaking is fine with me.  Preferable actually.  We will uncover your illegal associations, and find exactly who you are working for."  The corner of his mouth curved, briefly, returned.  "Effective immediately, your marriage to John Watson is officially annulled, in the fullest sense.  It was actually never legal to begin with.  You failed to disclose your marriage to one David, last name stated 'Smith.'  There is no divorce on record between you."  He paused to let the impact of the lies sink in, that she'd never been particularly successful, and produced an official looking envelope ostensibly with annulment decree within; he handed one to John, then one to Mary.  "Smith," he repeated.  "Doubtful."

Mycroft paused, then continued.  "I have assigned a three person detail that will be staying with you, or near you, around the clock until the paternity issue is resolved.  You will, at ten am tomorrow, report to Bart's Maternity department, where an amniocentesis will be performed to establish paternity of the child you carry.  Whether Dr. Watson accompanies you or not is completely at his discretion."  

Her hands went around her abdomen, the red jacket under her hands making her skin look very pale by comparison.  John couldn't take his eyes off her even as he felt Sherlock's shoe against his own, an almost unnoticeable reminder of his tangible presence, there in the car.  On the other hand, she was a stranger, a complete and total surprise.  "Is she mine?" he asked, quietly, and finally her eyes did leave Mycroft's face to meet his.

There was ice in the pale blue irises.  "She might be."  The slightest conniving smile, then, and the slightly arched brow, revealed just how much she hated him, hated them, and the response had been picked to inflict maximum hurt.  She made sure to flash the implications in a treacherous smile at Sherlock, as if reminding him of the physical relationship she and John had.  He was, as expected, motionless.

"You will be leaving the country regardless of the findings.  If the child is genetically determined not John's, whether David's or someone else, you and the child will leave the country at your earliest convenience."  Mycroft glanced at John with a slight question in his head tilt, so John looked back over at her, this stranger in the car.  He was politely giving him the option to speak up.

"If it's mine, she stays with me."  He thought about ending the sentence there, felt compelled to make sure things were clear.  "With us."  At the pronoun, she looked quickly at John, who gazed back at her steadily.

"If I refuse?"

"The flash drive contents will be made public, you _will_ spend the rest of your life in prison, I guarantee it."  Mycroft, ice in his eyes and his diction, answered, "And that's just for starters.  Be assured that your movements will be carefully monitored at all times."  He then turned back to his mobile.  "Your choice, in part," he added as an afterthought almost, as if it didn't matter.  Mary looked over at John to see the quiet victory mixed with relief in his eye, the satisfied expression, and even the pleasure at Mycroft's handling.

"Don't think you can be arrogant with me, _John_."  Her tone was acerbic, biting.  "You're just as guilty, and I've known about you for quite some time.  I'm not sorry, and I doubt you are either."  Her eyebrow raised as she looked between John and Sherlock.  There was more she wanted to say, apparently, judging by her expression.  "It was - you were - just a job," and she shrugged, off-handedly, casually, hurtfully.  "This too," she said, her hand resting lightly on her belly.

John had many responses he wanted to issue, several of them clearly not a good idea, he could tell that no response was going to be best, just judging by Sherlock's tension and body language.  He was hyper aware of him, almost able to read him even as he was seated across from him.

"Neither of us may have been the first," he said, voice deep and calm, as he threw back her words from the wedding.  He still, for all intents and purposes, was acting only very slightly impaired, "but let me point out that I will still be here long after you are gone."

They'd pulled up in front of the Watson's flat.  Mary's face took in the three expressions on the men in the car, got out, the door thunking closed as she walked off without another word.

"So," John said, "You claim you know exactly what he's going to do next.  That was a bold faced lie."

"Yes of course it was, but Mary doesn't know that.  And with the information we got today, we were able to push a program that will clone her mobile, so all will be visible now, should she grow careless and let something slip."  A pair of agents, one male, one female, got out of the car behind them, followed Mary toward the house, while the driver remained kerbside.

Sherlock watched carefully as the security agents entered the house, the door closing behind them.  John spoke, "She's going to try to make a break for it, in my opinion."

Nodding, Sherlock agreed, "Of course she will.  She won't get far."

Mycroft reached into the console next to him, withdrew a flannel.  He tossed it at Sherlock, who was watching through half-lidded eyes.  "Have a wash, your face is a mess."

Sherlock smirked as he did so, looking suddenly much more awake, the red rimmed eyes coming off fully into the cloth, leaving unblemished, unmarked skin.  The drug abuse masquerade, officially and unofficially, was over.  He took the remainder of the list as Mycroft held it back out to him, ripped it again into smaller pieces, set it all aside.  John felt some of the squeezing around his chest ease, then, and he blew out a breath, looking at the flat he'd never really wanted in the first place.  And certainly never like this.

"Baker Street," Sherlock said.

"Home."  John agreed, the word a benediction gently spoken over the day's events.

It seemed both endless and very quick before they were standing in the living room at Baker Street, and Sherlock was hanging up his Belstaff, like usual.  John toed off his shoes, a familiar act, and between the two of them, they fired up the teakettle and (one unsweetened, one with two sugars and milk) sat in their chairs.  The routine they'd embraced finally felt normal, without the threat of discovery overhanging them.  The skull looked down, nonplussed, and Mrs. Hudson had the telly too loud from downstairs.  The bookcases, the chairs, the air and the scent of the place, all of it comforting and familiar and secure.

John felt like smiling except for the variable about the baby, and it weighed on him.  

"You need to talk about it, go ahead."

"I'm not going with her tomorrow."  Sherlock shrugged, having probably already known that.  "Results can be rushed, which costs extra, but I think waiting a whole week isn't fair to any of us."  The fatigue that was settling over him finally seemed to sap the energy from his voice.  "It's still going to be a few days."

"I don't really factor in here, John.  Whatever you choose is fine."

"Of course you do.  Depending..."  He looked over at Sherlock.  "I might be raising a baby soon, or we might, here.  It changes everything.  Unless you don't want ..."

"Of course I want..."

"Then you matter."  John blew out a breath then and was annoyed when it was shaky.  "And the rest of the conversation is going to have to wait until we know."

"It doesn't have to.  If you want to talk through plans, that's fine."

"It's premature."  John could have made a list:  attending or not the birth, discussing potential names, thinking about plans for the future, what eventually to tell the baby, if she would have the typical Watson freckles, what she would call the two of them.  But all untimely.  He didn't want to start looking forward to any of it and getting excited until he knew if there was truly something to get excited about.  Important topics, all of them, that would either be discussed or forgotten, squelched, in the days to come.  "I don't want to deal with it now."

"I'm here if you change your mind and want to talk.  I can't promise, though, I won't say and do stupid things, but I'm a good listener."

A snort of laughter erupted from John, then.  "Since when?"  Sherlock's sense of humour prickled at John's demeanor, reviving him slightly.

"I can try."  The smile he directed at John was mildly impish.

"How long does the ankle monitor stay on?"

"I'm not sure.  The government is going to want results and success, but that is going to take some time."

"Does it bother you?"

"Of course it does, the mere idea of someone being able to watch me, track my location, monitor my every ... " and then he paused, seeing John's knowing glare of understanding.  "Oh."

"Welcome to my world, Sherlock."  John eyed it, toeing up the pants leg cuff with his stockinged foot.  "Does it monitor heart rate?"  Sherlock looked perplexed until he looked at John's impish expression and understood.  "Because if you're willing, I'd like to see if we can get your heart rate elevated."

"I don't think heart rate is measured."

"Pity that," John said, rising to his feet.  He took Sherlock's hand.  "Might as well let them track you into the bedroom, anyway."

"My pleasure."

"Oh, I think pleasure for both of us is in order."

++

The amniocentesis was carried out without complication, or so Mycroft had told them, and the results ordered as urgent.  Mycroft had sent someone to the flat for John's DNA sample - a tube of John's blood and a buccal swab as well, to be thorough.  

The days passed slowly, with John trying not to dwell on it overmuch.  He went to work, grateful beyond measure for the distraction.  Sherlock had meetings with Mycroft and once Greg stopped by with an excuse of a case.  He wore the ankle bracelet but clearly hated it judging by the murderous glaring he did at the blasted device.  Evenings, both of them tried to keep intentionally benign, watching telly or reading.  They ordered in, or John did the shopping and they fussed around the kitchen.  

One evening after dinner with Mrs. Hudson, just as they were leaving, an official looking courier was just entering the foyer.

"Looking for 221B."  He glanced down at the clip.  "Dr. John Watson?"

"Yes."

"Sign here," he was told and then offered a sealed envelope, return address NHS.

Sherlock was watching John intently, wondering at the stress of the moment, and he followed John up the steps into the flat.

"Showtime."  John spoke, his mouth curving up slightly on one side.  "Call it."

Sherlock stared, blinking.  His brain engaged, bright blue eyes narrowing back at John, and John found him completely unreadable.  "Absolutely not."

"Coward."

"No, I'm not.  And neither are you.  But something this big, monumental, to guess wrongly would have devastating consequences."

"I didn't realise I'd be this nervous."

"John."  Sherlock chided.  "It either is yours, or it isn't.  It could be, and based on your sperm count and motility -- "

"Stop."  John swallowed, hearing Sherlock being Sherlock.  "I don't want to know how you know my sperm count or anything about my motility."

"Mine is still slightly higher than yours, probably an age-related finding..."

 _"Stop."_  He hesitated then, looking at Sherlock.  

Sherlock made an impatient gesture, glancing at the envelope.

John slid a finger into the seal, pulled out a single sheet letter and a few lab reports with complicated DNA stranding results.  The letter shook a bit in his trembling hand as his eyes took in the name, date, address.  He started to read some phrases aloud, "... certified DNA based sampling, with 15 variant locations on the DNA of samples obtained from both mother and alleged father..."  John paused there on the word alleged, finding it irritating, "... the probability of paternity of female fetus is confirmed with general test results at greater than 99.9%...  no inconsistencies identified on any of the samples submitted ... short tandem repeat DNA polymorphic markers..."

 John stopped reading, let the hand holding the letter drop to his side.  Reminding himself to breathe, he cut eyes quickly to Sherlock, who just steadily looked back at him, watching and waiting before jumping in with anything.  It was John's call on how to proceed.  The silence started to drag out, and just as John found himself wondering what to say, he found the corners of his mouth turned up emphatically, the grin overtaking him and lighting up the pair of them.  A daughter, _his daughter_.  There was no more wondering.

"Congratulations, John."

"To you too, to us, all of us."  His voice was a bit wobbly.  "Oh my god."

 ++

The morning started with John's stomach rumbling, tucked away under the depths of the covers, his back nestled warmly against Sherlock's front.  Long arms wrapped around him, one tucked over his hip, and the other slid under the pillow under John's head.  John had finally stopped complaining - although he noticed every time - about always being the little spoon in this embrace.  They just fit together so much better this way.  Small puffs of warm exhaled air tickled the back of his neck, and he debated on what he wanted more - a fry up or a romp under the covers and then a fry up.  The small of his back was soon punctuated by an interested piece of Sherlock's anatomy, which answered the question of what to do next as his own body responded without even a hesitation.  Arching his back slightly, he leaned back and felt Sherlock's arms draw them closer and sleepy lips brush against his shoulder.

"Morning," came the baritone growl in his ear.  Sherlock's long fingers eased up under his tee shirt, grabbing slightly over the round at his waist because he knew it made John irritable, and brushed his hand up to soon find the firmly muscled pec.  He skimmed around the nipple lightly, then gently  pinched, pulling John back tightly against him.

"Mmm.  You too."  John stretched up an arm behind his head to find Sherlock's curls deliciously sleep-tousled and wild, while turning his head into Sherlock's mouth for a stubbled rub.  Neither of them were into kissing prior to saying hello to a toothbrush, but it wasn't necessary either.

Sherlock's hand worked both of their pyjamas down, getting caught under bodies pressing together as well as the mattress and the firm angled erections that both seemed to get in the way.  John dug his toes into the bed, reaching out for the lube that was never too far away, and that gave Sherlock opportunity to get his pyjamas completely out of the way.  Some well applied lube, an arching and cautious angling had John breathless and a bit tense as Sherlock eased in, waited for him to adjust.  John could feel his pulse hammering away in various pulse points, and very intensely where their bodies came together, and after a few moments, Sherlock remained still but moved his hand to John's shaft.  Careful, almost timid fingers started lightly brushing.  He was erect, hard, throbbing, and the contact of Sherlock's hand didn't seem to help the rest of his muscles relax.  Usually that stroke, in particular upon first being entered, was enough to let his body stretch and melt into Sherlock's touch.

"You ok?"  Sherlock's hand remained with feathery light touching, the sensations of pleasure and pain sending terribly mixed signals.  John was occasionally sensitive, tender, especially when some time had elapsed, but he had confessed, more than once, that the combination of discomfort plus tingling gratification was completely and totally worth every bit of savouring.

"Not yet, _wait_ ," he whispered, his hand reaching to hold Sherlock's thigh in a cautionary gesture that prevented him from moving.  Sherlock held John's hip bone, and started backing away, backing _out_ , but John's fingers tightened.  "Don't.  Gimme a ..."

Sherlock's fingers left his shaft, sliding back around to where there bodies were joined.  "Sorry I should have ..." and John could feel the slightest massage and additional lube being spread and the careful circular rubbing of tight muscle.  "Pull your knees up more."  Sherlock's body remained perfectly still, although John could still feel the slightest throbbing and pulsating within him, and Sherlock patiently said, "Breathe in," and he waited for compliance, then said quietly, "Blow it out," and as he said that his hand reached for John's erection again, a firmer touch this time, and they both felt the tight ring begin to give, then settle.  John could feel his muscles unwind from his core outward, and his grip on Sherlock's thigh loosened.  The early morning light was getting a bit brighter in the room, a few sounds filtered in from outside as the street began to wake up.

"Ok," John whispered, and he pressed his pelvis back against Sherlock, urging him slightly toward movement with his hand, too.  From behind, Sherlock's hand continued to stroke, heat building between them, his hand picking up the pace and the tension.  "I'm good," he said again wriggling against him and sliding just a bit forward then back, but Sherlock seemed to be reluctant.   _"Please,"_ John urged, when he could almost feel, already, the tightness coiling within him, his heart pounding, the earliest twinges of impending orgasm.

"You first," sounded low in his ear, and John angled his neck to give Sherlock access to skin, asking for what he wanted without words and feeling Sherlock's mouth then, warm and moist, suction then, just slightly.  The hand between his legs picked up, thumb brushing over the tip and the fingers wrapping more tightly around.  Teeth nibbled at the point of his neck, tongue and lips becoming more demanding, along with the hand and the pressure within him.  "Come on, _give it_ ," he groused quietly.

A soft moan came from John then, and he moved his hips as best he could, overwhelmed and seeking imminent release.  "Close," he warned, and only then Sherlock began to slowly slide within him, pressing forward then back, not losing rhythm with his hand or his mouth.  The waves started low in John's groin, spiraling tightly and then bursting, crashing through him and around Sherlock and spilled hot and thick over Sherlock's hand.  The mouth that had been on his neck let go, breathless, and the tightly muscled body behind John thrust only a few more times until John could feel incredible thickening, stretching him, growing larger and harder within, then hot and filling pulsations, deep inside, the sensation oddly filthy and wonderful at the same time.  

Angling slightly on his side, even as they were still entwined, John brought up an arm to his face.  His breath puffed out contentedly, and he could feel every joint, muscle, and nerve unwind and loosen as they tingled.  As things settled, the throbbing abated and Sherlock eased away, pressing a stubble-chinned kiss to his shoulder.  John's eyes drifted closed as he heard Sherlock in the loo, water running, toilet flushing, toothbrush used, and moments later he was in the doorway.

"John?"

"Not getting up.  Again," he said, eyes still closed, a lopsided smirk appearing briefly.  "Not for anything."  He peered under his elbow, knowing Sherlock was still standing there, "Well, maybe for tea..." and his voice trailed off as he saw Sherlock reading from his mobile and not caring for the expression he saw on his face.  "What is it?"  He leaned up on an elbow, concerned.

"Is your mobile dead?"  John shrugged, gesturing at where he usually plugged it in to find it absent.   _Oops_ , he rarely forgot to plug it in.  Disapprovingly, Sherlock shook his head slightly as he gestured to whatever he was reading.  "Mary's at the hospital, in labour.  Apparently they tried to contact you a few hours ago."

"The baby's _early_."  John was already grabbing at his trousers searching for his mobile, finding it, as Sherlock had suggested, dead in his pocket.  Sherlock handed his over, and John phoned the main number, finally ending up at the nurses desk of the maternity center.  They wouldn't, they explained, release any information other than to confirm that Mary Watson was a patient there.  Sherlock stepped in then, shoving John toward the shower and switching his mobile to airplane mode for fast charging, and oversaw the chaotic few moments until they were both dressed and exiting the flat.

The cab ride was quick, silent, tense, and shortly they were outside the locked doors of the unit to which they needed entry.  John hesitated before pressing the buzzer for admittance.  "I can't imagine she's going to want me to stay, I'm not sure I want to share it with her."  The last time Mary had brought the subject up, John wasn't sure it was best for him to be there, and Mary said she was considering asking a friend from her yoga class, someone she'd met a few times in a previous class, to be a labour partner.  He looked uncertainly at Sherlock, who stood stoic, calm.  "I'll probably be right back out."

Sherlock nodded, and glanced back at the waiting room, where he'd grab a seat.  "I'll be here."  He was careful to ensure his trouser leg covered the ankle monitor as he sat down.

The intercom sounded, and John identified himself.  He was asked to be patient, that someone would be right out.  His eyes sought out Sherlock's, and there was hesitation between the two of them.  One of the nurses arrived, held the door to allow John to enter.  He followed her to the small consultation room, and he knew immediately that watching the birth of his daughter was not on his agenda.  She was matter-of-fact, explaining only that Mrs. Watson was in active labour, that she and her labour partner were doing well, and that she had been expressly clear that Dr. Watson was not welcome in the room.  When John asked how far dilated she was, the nurse pursed her lips apologetically and said, "I'll send someone out when there's news, Dr. Watson.  I'm also supposed to let you know that Mrs. Watson has requested to be moved out of the maternity center once safely delivered and past our required two hour post-delivery monitoring."

John nodded, strangely disappointed but not surprised.  "Can you please tell her..." and his voice trailed off as his mind searched for something appropriate.  Everything that came to mind sounded terribly trite or insincere - good luck, thinking of you, I'm sorry, even a simple I'm here - so he settled on, "Thanks for the update."

The nurse nodded, touched his arm with a sympathetic squeeze on her way past him, and there was a technician waiting at the locked door to grant him egress.  Sherlock was not in the waiting room as expected, so John had a seat, leaned his head back against the wall, and wondered how the hell men had done this for years.  Even though the culture had changed recently that men accompanied their wives for the birth, John found himself puzzled at why the progress had taken so long.  

 John was lost in his train of thinking, recalling the babies he'd delivered in med school, of the labour process from which he'd been primarily spared, then and now.  He wondered about how things were going, calculated how early exactly Mary was (or may not be, although the scan had confirmed a date still over two weeks in the future).  His training reminded him that female newborns fared better from a physical standpoint than males, with lung maturity and low birth weight tolerance.  The buzzing of his mobile in his pocket startled him out of his reverie.

**Vatican Cameos. Stay. Watch your back. $**

 John had barely time to process that, but knew exactly what it meant.  Danger.  Mycroft arrived, minion in tow, to the waiting room area then.  John stood up, knowing that asking questions was beyond futile, so he waited for Mycroft to fill him in, and he did so, quickly, to the point.  "Text message received soon as you entered, claiming to have information about Moriarty and threatening your safety, threatening the child as well.  You and the baby are pawns, we believe Mary is also dispensable, in Moriarty's eyes, whomever or whatever he embodies now.  This is between he and Sherlock, and the stakes are life and death.  I still have no idea as to the specifics.  But we know that, chiefly, he wants Sherlock."  Mycroft eyed the locked door of the unit.  "Once they let you in, do not leave the baby under any circumstance."

He only nodded, wondering where Sherlock had been lured to, and he stood.  "Where is he now?"

"Uncertain.  The ankle band only gives two dimensions, so we have no idea what floor he is on.  Still in the building, though, western end last I knew."  John knew that his mobile would transmit elevation, but probably only through software at one of Mycroft's offices so it would not be immediately available.

"Is the baby safe?"

"I have had a nurse on staff here for several months in preparation for this day, and this is the nurse Mary met at prenatal classes, so when she asked if the nurse was on, we had already planted the request that she would come in.  The woman is Mary's labour nurse.  She was already nine centimetres at last update, John.  I would expect it won't be much longer now."  How Mycroft knew the specifics of Mary's progress, John could only wonder.  There was a moment of connection, where Mycroft looked steadily back at John, and John considered Sherlock's brother.  Both, for whatever their differences were, had strengths and quirkiness and connections in unusual places.  "Dr. Watson, you should know that David has been Mary's labour companion."

"Shit."

"They are well monitored.  As I've explained."  The condescension in Mycroft's tone, as if John should be pleased there was a nurse keeping tabs.  

Mycroft was clearly listening to something, then, and John noticed a small receiver at the base of one ear, and he wondered who was at the other end, knowing concretely that Sherlock would never agree to an audio link.  "So the baby will be safe."  John sought reassurance, restating what Mycroft had said.

"To the best of our knowledge.  This nurse is highly skilled and well connected.  She knows, obviously, who the players are and is immune to attempts at coercion or deception, should it come to that."  Mycroft clearly was ready to move on.  "You don't have your weapon on you."

"Of course not.  Hospital."  John gestured at their surroundings and shrugged as if that were the most stupidly obvious statement ever uttered.

Mycroft consulted his mobile, tapped a button on the earpiece, said, "Speak," and after a moment, another button.  "Dr. Watson," he said finally, "You should know that your daughter has arrived.  Congratulations."  The announcement came without fanfare and without emotion, but then again, this was Mycroft, Mr. Ice-Man.  John felt none of the elation, simply responsibility and concern over what would now amount to all of their welfare.

He choked out a "Thanks" as Mycroft nodded his head, strode quickly down the hall, leaving John alone.  Very alone, and feeling very helpless.

_Bloody David._

  ++

John was summoned into the unit again, banded with the mandatory wristband identifying him, to meet his daughter for the first time.  She was the only baby in the depths of the special care nursery, although, the neonatologist had explained that she was perfectly healthy and doing very well, but would stay monitored overnight just due to her gestational age of just under 37 weeks and low birth weight of 2400 grams.  "But," Dr. Keller explained, "she took a bottle well, good muscle tone with normal reflexes, moderate lanugo - expected.  The acrocyanosis is common and will normalise.  Her measurements, head circumference, are otherwise proportionate.  It's really precautionary, Dr. Watson."  He'd stood very still, considering John for a few moments, and then continued, "and truthfully, it's unusual, your situation.  Since it's just going to be you visiting her here -"

John interrupted, then, softly.  "And my partner."

"Fine, and a partner, this room might actually suit you better, as there's no actual visitation room set up for this kind of thing."  He eyed the baby, sleeping, papoosed, a dummy in her mouth.  The hat was pink, the small teddy bear wearing a pink Bart's shirt.  "Got a name picked?"

"Not yet."  The name was just one of many things that John had not particularly prepared for, figuring that he still had lots of time.

"Plan will be probably just one day monitoring.  If she can hold her temp steady while not under the radiant lights, and as long as she isn't showing signs of jaundice, we'll talk discharge after twenty-four hours."  He consulted the clipboard.  "There'll be a social worker to walk you through the paperwork tomorrow.  Some special considerations here, but they'll help you." 

 One of the nursery nurses came back then, reviewed her assessment with John, handing over her stethoscope so John could listen to the normal systolic murmur.  His grin must have pleased her, as she chatted with him about the typical nursery routine, even the monitoring.  While she was monitored locally, there was also telemetry at the central station, so they would be able to keep an eye on her remotely as well.  Indicating, she offered the overstuffed rocking chair there and told John he could have the room for as long as he wanted.  He gave Sherlock's name, so that he could provide ID and then be banded as a permissible visitor to the nursery, if he chose.  He had a few questions, mostly about the expected routine, and she offered him a warm congratulations before leaving him there with the baby.

"Hi sweetheart," he said, holding her small blanketed body close, adjusting the tiny bonnet over her wee head, marveling at the tiny perfection.  She was, he knew, much smaller than the babies he saw at the surgery, tiny from the start.  Her scent was clean freshness and unspoiled by anything, untouched by life so far.

Alarms sounded, John twitched in response, crouched down, shielding the baby from any threat.  Fire alarm testing, it seemed, and he doubted it very much.  Too coincidental.  The fire alarms, with their strobe flash, and the nurse who'd shown him to the room appeared.  "Testing, must be," she said.  "We close doors, just routine, I'm sure."  The overhead hallway lights dimmed, and her brow furrowed.  "I'm sure it's just a test, NHS gets more demanding every year."  Reaching a hand in, she peered at the baby's color, looked again at the monitor (sinus tach, 135 range, all normal, breathing 46, also normal).  "Call bell's there on the wall if you need something," and she nodded at the switch by the doorway.  "We'll check on you again, gotta run, ok?"

"The security's not compromised in a power cut?"  John voiced his concern, deciding that the staff might be at more risk than they thought.  

She smiled sympathetically.  "Don't worry.  Mrs. Watson has already left the unit.  All was fine, and yes, the door remains locked.  On the off chance something goes down, they send security to us, and there is only that one door.  Unless you're staff, of course."

Not reassuring.  John watched the nurse quickly leave the nursery and fade down the hall to the rest of the unit to continue her duties, reassure patients, and probably gossip about the uniqueness of Baby Watson and her odd birth circumstances.

Mobile flashed, read message briefly **Shelter in place, do not leave, I'm almost there, $**

John nuzzled the baby in his arms before placing her back, safely in the bassinet on her back, then moved further away from public view through the windows.  John slid both of them into the anteroom of the special care nursery, pulling the bassinet with him, cursing his stupidity regarding his mobile, now flashing in red 6% battery remaining.

Door opened, a staff entrance doorway, and John turned, expecting Sherlock.  Instead, a slim man - or perhaps a fit woman - stood, all black from knitted cap to black clothing, black shoes.  A gun, also black John noticed stupidly, was pointed in his direction.  For the moment, there was no finger on the trigger.

"Dr. Watson."  John placed himself between this interloper and the baby.  He wished he was both bigger and armed.  "Sorry to disappoint you, but I'm not Sherlock.  He will, however," the voice was an odd tone and each word was sort of drawn out abnormally, "be the next one through this door in all likelihood.  He will find you mortally injured with another gunshot wound.  Perhaps if you don't bleed out too quickly, you might still be conscious enough to tell him goodbye."

There were quite a few phrases, many of them profane, that John opted not to say.  He weighed his options at lunging, taking the person out, but to do so left the baby completely vulnerable, and if there was a chance at this not being a kill shot, he had to consider it.  He wished for even an IV pole he could quickly locate and swing if needed.  As it was, there was nothing useful at hand.

"He's chasing five pips, my boss's message just for him, and he's off in the basement looking for clues.  Wild goose chase, as it were."

"What do you want?"

"That should be very obvious, and I'm shocked at your stupidity.  Why does he tolerate you at all?"

"Leave the baby alone."

"The baby assures your cooperation, and you assure Sherlock's.  Win-win for us.  Wasn't that clever of me?  Five pips, and he's only on the second, slowing with age or he's slipping.  It's been us all along."  A quick consult of the mobile in his hand.  "Ahhhh.  I see he's leaving the basement, but unfortunately pip three is going to lead him to the mortuary."  John simply stared at the person, man, he considered now, it had to be, looking at the device and wondering at the tracking that was going on.  A sinister smile came then, and he (or she, John thought, it could be) rotated the device so John could see.  "Both of you men, see?  Here's you" (gesturing) "and here's Sherlock."

John was keenly and acutely aware of the sleeping baby at his elbow, and he strained hard to hear any noise, but for the moment, just normal breathing.  He refused on every level to glance at her, not wishing to draw any attention to her.

"You can rest assured that your final gift, our final gift, to Sherlock will be that of finding your body.  I knew you'd be here, there is no hiding from me, none of you.  I've known, and the baby was the perfect bait."

There were overhead pages and hallway noise, but it was hard to hear behind the closed doors, in the depths of the back room of the nursery.

"In order to make sure I get out unscathed, I think it's time, don't you, Dr. Watson?  Shall we begin?"

John stood in front of bassinet, silent, calculating his odds at tackling, knowing they were terrible.  Fierce protectiveness of the baby behind him, already apologising for his lifestyle and connections that had drawn her into danger at mere hours old.  He tried not to clench his fist, not looking to advertise the move he was going to have to make, he would not go down without a fight.

And then it all happened so fast, the finger on the trigger aimed at his chest, kill shot for sure, the overhead page for assistance required to the mortuary, the cackle from the gunman in front of John, the faint squeak of a sucking motion from the bassinet.  The slightest whoosh of a door opening then, quickly changing the air currents in the room, the privacy curtain wafting in the gentle disturbance between the two sections of nursery, and the faintest squelch of a leather soled shoe on the lino.  The gunman, in the split seconds that John would later remember, turned slightly on his or her heel, distracted at the disruption in the room, squeezing the trigger.  A searing, burning pain erupted in his bicep shocked him in it's agony, he was vaguely aware of the bassinet noise as the baby must have startled in the normal reflex, and then the floor rushed up to meet him.  And then there was nothing.

++

The floor wasn't as hard as it should have been, John realised, sensing the distant aching in his upper arm.  God,  _The baby!_  He tried to sit up, lurching suddenly in his attempt to find her, see her, make sure she was okay.  

Hands pushed him flat, and he opened his eyes to bright fluorescent lights overhead.  Nasal cannula against his face, the cool smell of plastic.  A stretcher with siderails.  The faint beeping of a monitor over his head.  "Lay back.  It's okay."  There was a strange nurse there, a bulky dressing over his shoulder and arm, the faintest shadow of blood soaking through.  "Dr. Watson?"  Awareness and pain increased incrementally, throbbing and burning.

"The baby...?"

"She's fine."  

"Where is she?"

"In the nursery where she belongs, of course."  A pat on the uninjured arm and the adjustment of the IV that John hadn't noticed before.  Coolness was becoming more pronounced then, with the increased rate.  The sting was an almost pleasant distraction from the fiery smoldering in his other arm.  There was vague acknowledgement of other aches and pains, his knee and elbow and the side of his head, and it occurred to him he hadn't managed to fall to the floor with any self-preservation and must have hit hard on a few now bruised and abused areas of his body.

"Is someone with her?"  He wanted to fling himself out of bed in the worst way.  "I want - _need_ \- to see her."

A voice spoke up from the foot of his bed.  "More security than the royal family, Dr. Watson."  Mycroft.

John could feel the lump in his throat as he tried to swallow around it.  "You're sure she's okay?"

Mycroft approached the stretcher he was laying on, as the nurse switched on the procedure lamp, dragged a cart bedside.  One of the A&E docs, Dr. Stephens, approached from the other side.  "Need some suturing, Dr. Watson."

"John."

"Repair of laceration, a through-and-through wound.  Lots of bleeding that was stopped at the scene."  

Mycroft held out his mobile, then, so John could see it.  It was a photo of the baby, sleeping in the bassinet, monitor wires connected, and a security officer visible at one end, one of Mycroft's suits hamming for the camera.  "Your guy is a smart arse," John quipped, feeling somewhat relieved that she was indeed, appearing to be well looked over at the moment.

"Let's go, then," John demanded, glancing back at Dr. Stephens who was donning sterile gloves and setting up a field.

Mycroft raised an eyebrow.  "Bossy."  There was an amused tone, too.

"Where is he?"

There was a scuffling in the hallway, and a raised voice demanding to be let in.  Dr. Stephens sighed.  "No.  Everyone else out."

John opened his mouth to protest and was silenced by a look.

"I will work faster without audience, without interruptions.  My wound infection rate is remarkably low, and I prefer to keep it that way."  He looked over at Mycroft.  "Out.  You can guard from the hallway."  The voice, Sherlock, of course, was now accusing them of obstruction of justice and would likely start deducing extramarital affairs and financial improprieties next.  "Go calm him down.  He will bloody wait, too."

Dr. Stephens smiled a little at John once the room was Holmes-free.  "Okay, then.  Bloody lucky, John.  This just missed your brachial artery.  Needs some entrance and exit wound repair, minimise the scarring."  There was some clinking of instruments, and a sterile drape was laid across his chest, partially blocking his view.  "Little pinch and some burning here, bit of local."

John listened to the packages being opened, the faint bleeping of the monitor, heard the acceleration.  "Lido with epi, then?"  He murmured, eyes rolling toward the bedside monitor, and heard the responding snicker of the doctor as John identified the substance by the change in pulse, the positive chronotrope kicking in.  "Who found me?"

There was another amused expression, and John found himself grateful that people in his periphery could find things to smirk over, because John was starting to become irritated.  "Probably the same hothead who's in the hallway wreaking havoc on my staff.  If I was feeling mean, I would pull the curtains so no one could see in to this room."  John felt the needle deeper in his arm, burning and freezing together.

"Ow, feel that," John said, knowing his face was scrunched up in pain.   _Little pinch and some burning, right._   It was the most frequently used lie doctors gave their patients, all the time.  "It will only make him worse, if you can believe that."

"You should be good soon, lot of local, obviously a deep wound.  I'll put a few in deep, repair the muscle, close the skin, the rest will heal naturally."  He tugged the drape away on the sterile side with his glove to look at John's face.  "You okay?"

John had no idea how to answer that, paused for a long moment, then started to laugh.  "Sorry," he said finally.  "I guess I'm okay.  For the day I've had."  He felt dull pressing at the wound, knowing the doc was testing for sensation and numbness.  "Fairly numb now.  Hot and tingly."

"I'll give it another minute.  Do you need pain medicine?  Sedation?"  The raised voice outside the door now seemed to include the words imbecile and ridiculous.  "Sedation for him?"

"No.  What I need is for someone to tell me what happened."  He let the question dangle, hoping for even the information the A&E staff had.

John heard the clicking of the driver as Dr. Stephens loaded the needle, felt a few deep pangs of tenderness as he worked.  "What I know isn't much."  He paused, concentrating on the instruments at his fingertips.  "Intruder on campus."  Pause, tugging, clipping.  "Found you in the nursery, huge blood loss, baby was fine.  Shooter got away."

"Got away?  Someone interrupted him," John remembered, "Messed up his aim."

"Yes, and thank God, you were in the nursery."  Pause, click, snip.  "Opted to put pressure on your wound than to chase him."  Pause, clank, pull, tie.  "Might have bled out otherwise, if he hadn't."  Click, thread pulling, knot, cut.  "Hold still here, more local," and the nurse helping raised John's arm so the exit wound could be cleaned again.  "Looks pretty clean, but," he daubed gauze over it, evaluating.  John felt the needle slide in again, then the sharp burning anaesthetic infiltrate the tissues.  "Brought to us pretty out of it.  Again, blood loss, fingerstick was low, 52 I think, dextrose in the IV."  John hadn't eaten all day, no surprise there, little stress thrown in.  Dr. Stephens lowered the arm again, finished up the final skin level sutures in the front, and by the time he switched to the back, it was quite numb.  "No other injuries, to the best of my knowledge?"  

He waited for John to shrug.  "Few bruises, I'm feeling now."

Dr. Stevens nodded.  "Expected."  Clank, knotting thread, needle sliding, snip.  "Hospital will be on lockdown a few hours yet.  There was an escape, I hear, well planned."

John leaned his head back, then, focused on breathing slowly.  Sherlock was in the hall and would fill him in on the rest.  The baby was safe, monitored, cared for.  He'd had a close encounter, but would recover.

Dr. Stephens finished, and John couldn't tell if it had been a ridiculously long repair or not, he was lost in his thoughts, but before he could get too worked up, there was a dressing and a sling and his vest returned.  The shirt, they told him, was unsalvageable.  Sherlock was still hovering in the hallway outside John's cubicle, came directly to his side as soon as the door opened.  Both of them kept quiet, waiting until they would be safe enough to talk without being overheard.  The hand gripping his uninjured arm, however, John noticed, was cool and slightly clammy.  Very telling.  He refused labwork, citing he would refuse a transfusion even if his haemoglobin was low, and they finally removed his IV, cautioning him not to be left alone until he was better.  A few forms were signed, pain medication dispensed, enough to get him through the next day or so, and all involved insisted John travel back to the nursery via wheelchair, despite John's protestations otherwise.

Mycroft was gone already, but Sherlock wheeled him to a newly designated area of the unit where the baby was being monitored.  The staff checked both of their wristbands, granted them access.  The baby slept on, unscathed, and John resisted the urge to wake her, pick her up, to hold her safe and close.

"This is going to be tricky, baby care, I mean," he said, looking at her, considering the nappies, the bottles.  "Down one wing."  He was still slightly numb, and the tingling from the pain medication was making him process things slowly.

"Good thing you have reliable help, then."  It was a sarcastic challenge to defy his statement, but John let it ride.  He addressed the security guard and Mycroft's designee.  "May we have a few minutes, please?"

The door was no sooner closed than John turned to speak, but Sherlock shushed him, pointing at the bassinet.  John turned very puzzled eyes, seeing nothing that he was clearly observing.  Bending close, he looked at the bear in its pink Bart's shirt there in the corner by her feet as she slept on, oblivious.  A few taps of Sherlock's mobile, and he held it out for John to see.

**None of the other babies have one.  Tracking device, planted?**

This was soon deleted, and John glanced through the window that opened into the well-baby nursery, saw that it was true.  Sherlock kept his tone light.  "You feeling ok?  Have a lot of pain?"

"I'm ok.  Pretty good, considering.  You?"  His response was benign.

"Fine.  Looking forward to a good night's sleep in my own bed."

John's head whipped around to see him, then, shocked that he would even think of leaving the hospital, but the wink told him all he needed to know.  "Me too."

"I should feed you.  Cafeteria?"  He jerked his head over at Mycroft, who'd arrived with a bag of takeaway.  A quick consult between Mycroft and Sherlock, and they both inspected the bear, finding only a TrackR tile in the stuffing, which was only a tracking device and not microphone or other transponder.  Once this had been determined, John, Sherlock, and Mycroft were able to fill each other in on the events of the day until John was too overwhelmed and too uncomfortable to really absorb any more.  Basically, they told him, whoever was calling the shots on Moriarty had used the birth of the baby, knowing Sherlock would be here, and hoping - although it didn't work - that the game would culminate in what had been deemed Sherlock's ultimate pressure point and the harshest tragedy in his opinion - the fatal loss of John Watson.  Curious that whomever had confronted John was not in charge, as John recalled a reference to 'my boss' and the clues that Sherlock supposedly had been in search of, were careless.  Sherlock was not even there, had sent his mobile with an officer from the Yard, while he himself had made his way quickly carefully into the depths of the nursery just in time to startle the gunman, watch John's injury occur, and apply basic first aid until help arrived.

When they'd taken care of business, answered as many questions of John's as they could, Mycroft left them alone.  Finally the baby started making noise as if hungry, and it became a team effort to talk Sherlock through helping John with his first one-armed nappy change and then to get her settled in John's lap in order for him to offer her a bottle.

"God, she's like you with tea, John.  Look at her guzzle it?"

"She needs a name."

Sherlock tapped a few buttons on his mobile.  "Top 100 British baby names."  He quoted then handed the phone over to John to show him.

"Oh, God, I'm not sure I can decide this tonight.  What's she look like?"  

"A peanut.  God, she's tiny."  John considered himself fortunate that Sherlock didn't actually speak something completely honest and hurtful (like she looked like a piece of unwashed fruit, or looked like an alien with a sunburn, or something worse).  

"I don't think we can do peanut, even as a nickname.  Nicknames are not on for me," John said quietly.  "Think her hair might be red?"

"Were you?"

"Yes.  Rowan?"  John was looking down the list of names quickly, that one caught his eye.

"Try it on her," Sherlock suggested.  John looked at her, not really feeling that, either.  She had fallen asleep with the bottle, and he tried to get her to take a bit more.  "She might stay really fair skinned.  Bella?"

"Italian for beautiful."  John paused.  "Bella."  He set the bottle aside awkwardly, grateful that at least it was his right arm that was injured, leaving his dominant free, although it would still take him some time to become adept one handed.  "She needs a burp."

"And...?"

"Pick her up and see if you can get her to burp."

"Right.  You're kidding."  He stared, then let out a burst of disbelieving laughter.  "You are kidding, right?"

"Have you never been around babies?  I can try it, I guess."  John put a cloth against his good shoulder, eased one big hand under her to put the baby upright (and Sherlock hovered briefly until he was sure John could do it with one arm), and a bubble did make itself known.  "If you don't do that," John explained, feeling slightly concerned about the two of them dealing with her on Baker Street, one of them with a temporary physical disability and the other, well... _Sherlock_ , "she might throw up."  He felt all thumbs, awkwardly holding her against him while Sherlock seemed rather stunned at this whole undertaking.

"How long exactly, John," he began, "are you going to be incapacitated?"

"Not long."  He considered Sherlock's discomfort, and then his own.  "Hopefully."

"Riley?"  Sherlock was back at his mobile, scrolling.

"Riley."  John tossed it around his mouth.  "Riley.  That's cute.  What's it mean?"

"Valiant."  He snickered a bit.  "Might suit her, after today."  Sherlock set the phone aside, briefly.  "It would be easier than re-naming you."

"Riley Watson."  Both of them felt a connection to the name, liking the sound and the cadence of the whole name.  "I like it."  He found that his discomfort was growing, with his injuries and bruising.  "And I was not particularly valiant today.  Helpless, perhaps."

"John."  Sherlock rolled his eyes.  "I'm sure you had calculated the odds of attacking versus an aggressive show of non-cooperative behaviour.  Probably trying to delay whatever was happening, waiting for help."  The baby snuggled in closer, asleep.  "How many weapons were within your reach?"

John leaned his head back.  "Well, yes, I had, and no there was nothing particularly useful.  But it was still a very helpless feeling.  I was so concerned she was going to be harmed.  Or that you were."

"Had you been shot, I would definitely've been harmed, maybe physically, but mostly devastated.  I would have avenged you."  There was cold glittering truth in his expression, and John didn't doubt his words for a second.  "And gone after her."

There was a pause, and finally John gestured at the bassinet.  "Can you put her down?"

"Can you assure me there will be no getting sick on me?"

He wanted nothing more than to lie down, sleep off the tiredness, the fatigue, the emotional drain of the day.  He wondered if the staff would let him sleep near the baby, doubted it.  "I can offer you an imprecise fifty percent chance of that happening.  Babies have to sleep on their backs," he offered as Sherlock did remove the blanketed bundle from John's hold and put her down as directed.  His mobile held his attention then, and John felt some of the tension ease, knowing they were safe, that he had nothing further to do that evening.

"Mycroft informs me that the hospital has been cleared, restored to normal activities."

John could hear the hesitant reluctance in his voice.  "What else?"

"Mary's gone.  Left the building a few hours ago somehow, during all the confusion."

John opened an eye to find Sherlock watching him.  "And?"

"Some personal items retrieved from the flat, she's at the airport waiting to board a flight to Dubai.  Connecting flight, probably."

"We need her signature before she leaves."  There were custody details to be arranged that would hopefully end in termination of her parental rights.

"She left all the papers signed and notarised in her hospital room.  Mycroft is having the documents checked for completeness, but all seemed in order according to his PA.  And there's someone watching her, making sure she actually gets on that flight."

"Ok.  That doesn't sound like bad news, yet."

"Yet."  He watched John briefly, exhaustedly slumping in the chair.  "Come.  Mycroft somehow got permission for you to occupy one of the on-call rooms for tonight.  Probably agreed to fund a new wing of the building or something.  And then tomorrow we can take the baby home."

"Riley."  He imagined the three of them on Baker Street, finally.  The name was sticking, and despite his eyes closed and his level of non-energy, he was fairly certain there was a smile on his face.

"Yes, Riley."  Since he was imagining happy moments, he chose to picture Sherlock sporting a pleased smile as well.

"What about you?"

"Liaison with Mycroft.  Surveillance on our intruder today.  This is not over, to be sure."  Sherlock rapped his knuckle on the glass window, and shortly there was a suited official looking man who had been designated to stay within eye-shot of the baby.  He brooked no argument from John, albeit a weak one, about the wheelchair ride off the maternity unit, although they waited at the door quite a long time for them to de-activate the security briefly to allow Sherlock to leave.  When John silently questioned it, Sherlock spoke again with a degree of aggravation, "My ankle monitor sets off the system, created quite a ruckus earlier today.  The nurses were really rather fiercely protective."  

"I hope if they frisked you that you at least enjoyed it."

They cleared the door, and John was too exhausted to worry overmuch about the baby, although he did brush a hand fondly over her before leaving.  The nurse promised she would call if there were any issues, otherwise, they would see him the next day.  A security guard was there to guide them to a room for John to occupy for a few hours.

The on-call room had been one of several for trauma surgeons and an available anaesthesiologist when needed, but they'd since renovated and had yet to re-appropriate the room's use.  John groaned as he rolled into bed, the sling catching him oddly about the neck.

"Don't hang yourself in your sleep."

"Piss off."  John's eyes were closed already.  He toed off his shoes, letting them fall randomly to the floor.  Sherlock sighed, shaking his head at the condition of the already nearly-unconscious man in the bed.  A blanket spread over him, and a quick observation of his state of being - breathing slow, deep, his pulse rate elevated even in slumber (dehydration, stress), his eyes tired with signs of strain at the corners of his eyes and mouth, just tight and etched.  A tousle of the blond hair, Sherlock just couldn't resist and then reveling in the sigh of contentment John breathed out.  Even tired, apparently not quite asleep, John moved his uninjured arm to grab Sherlock's wrist, hold it a few moments.

"Thanks for this."  His voice, too tired to do more than whisper, was quiet in the still room.  "Stay?"

"Work to do."

"I know."

"I plugged your mobile in, volume's up, it's under your pillow.  Don't let it scare you - wouldn't want another injury on Riley's birthday."

"Mmmm."

When John opened his eyes next, it was with sheer confusion and disorientation.  The room was windowless, and it took a few moments until he recalled exactly why his arm was entirely so sore and why there were two hospital name bands on his uninjured wrist.  The sling had indeed slipped off his arm where it belonged and was something like an errant scarf until he managed to set things, with uncoordinated hands, aright.  The time seemed indicative that it was still night, but John was now up, instant on switch.  He struggled through a visit to the attached loo, found pain medication they'd dispensed, and took that on an empty stomach.  Wide awake, then, he found his mobile, headed back toward the nursery, walking slowly but under his own steam.  It was still very early, and night shift buzzed him access to the back room again.

Riley was awake, sucking casually on a fist, dark blue eyes open.  The nurse came over, let John know that she'd awakened a few times to eat, was probably about due for another.  She gave him the once over, and apparently found him somewhat wanting.  "You sure you don't want to sleep a bit longer?"

"That bad?" He smiled, shrugged.  "Couldn't."

"Yes, I hear it was quite a day.  Your partner was in a few hours ago, gave her one of the overnight feedings with a bit of encouragement."   She was clearly a bit amused but trying to be tactful.  "I'm guessing it was a first.  I offered to take a photo to commemorate, but..."

"It didn't go over well," John suggested.

"She's doing well," the nurse said, "lost a few grams, expected, but I can't think of a reason she won't be able to go home with you today."

Suddenly breathless, John pasted a smile on his face and could think of thousands of reasons why, but none that would qualify them for another overnight.  And, of course, he wanted to go home with her.  But they were wholly, completely, totally, fully unprepared.

"You'll be fine," the nurse assured him, observing the worry lines on his face.  "Dr. Watson, there's a recliner, get comfortable, I'll help you get her settled.  Relax.  And there'll be breakfast, all our boarder ... well, usually _boarder moms_  anyway get meals included.   Until then, tea?"

John's moan was answer positive, and the nurse smiled as John sat, moving his mobile and the TV remote convenient, reached out an arm for the newly nappied and swaddled baby.

Shortly a steaming mug of tea was placed within reach, and John let the bottle prop against his chest as he sipped his own beverage.  "You ring if you need help, then."  She indicated the buzzer.  "I hear you decided on a name."

"Riley."

"Cute.  Case manager will be in with paperwork, I understand most of it is already in order."

The tea, the pain medicine, the comfortable chair, and the baby who shortly fell asleep against him made for a decidedly better start to the day than much of yesterday had been, John considered.  His mobile buzzed.   **You in the nursery? I'm on my way over. $**

The shift changed, a doctor rounded on the baby, the pace of the unit steady with activity going on, which John could mostly keep tabs on through the large windows angling out into the intersection of hallways.  Sherlock arrived, in a bluster of fresh air, crisply blown newly showered hair, and a take-out mug of John's favorite tea for him.  "Been home?" John asked.

"Yes.  Picked up a few things from your old flat, brought stuff over, showered."  John gestured that Sherlock return the sleeping baby to the bassinet, and he fussed over the monitor leads as he set her down, turned back to John.  "Mary had some bags all packed, baby things.  There was a cot, gently used, in the spare bedroom.  Brought that too."  He paused, leaned in to press lips to John's in more of a proper greeting.  "You ok?"

"Sore.  Going to need pain medicine again before too long."  He sipped the tea, savouring it.  "But yes, better, thanks.  You?"

"Other than the fact that I think we are looking at cold trails now?"  He let that dangle, the frustration palpable.  "Mary, David, changed flights last minute, ended up connecting through Frankfurt and from there, tickets must have been purchased in another name already, alternate passports of course.  The person here, still can't tell male or female by video.  The voice was...?"

"Yes, one or the other."  John reached out his hand, brushed Sherlock against the leg as he stood.  "Sorry, even in person it was impossible to tell.  But if I had to guess, I would say female.  The chin was narrower, forehead more feminine appearing.  Not sure, however."

"We're checking additional data sources.  Not giving up."  They chatted a few minutes about what Mycroft was pursuing, until another hospital representative arrived, one with a skirt and a clipboard and a nurse in tow.

"Dr. Watson?"

"Yes."

"Our legal department has been through the paperwork, and all is in order.  As soon as the paediatriacian clears Baby Watson for discharge, she will be able to go home with a few Health Visitors set up for the coming week, just to assure she gains weight appropriately.  Are you able to sign a few forms?" 

"Of course."  Hearing that all paperwork was in order was a relief.  John signed his name, awkwardly, in places indicated.  The form to register her birth was included, and needed to be filed within six weeks.

As they concluded, the paediatrician arrived.  The monitors were removed, and provided all was looking well, they were cleared for discharge mid afternoon.  "Any questions?"  This was asked toward John, who hoped he was keeping the frightened look off his face.

Glancing at Sherlock, he shrugged, "No, I think we're good."

"Fantastic.  You have a car seat to take her home in?"

"Uh..." John began.

"It's being brought in, will arrive shortly," Sherlock offered.  And then probably, John thought, texted Mycroft to arrange it.

The packet of papers, discharge instructions, and John was shortly in possession of the standard information packet (including an info sheet on breastfeeding, episiotomy care, and resuming sexual relations, all of which Sherlock barely raised an eyebrow at).  John removed the papers from the pack, binning them then looking at Sherlock.  "You don't have to stay, you know.  I can get both of us home in a cab..." his voice trailed off as he could see stormclouds of displeasure gathering on Sherlock's now frowning features.

"Shut up.  Do you really think I don't want to be here?"

John's mouth snapped shut.

"For the both of you.  Give me some credit, please."

"Sorry."  The pain pills John had swallowed a bit ago were not taking the edge off yet.  "I appreciate it, but if you have things to do in the meantime, that's fine."

"The only thing I plan on doing right now is getting a list of what we still need, sent over to Mycroft so he can send someone to do the shopping."  He held his mobile, then, and waited for John to dictate some necessities (nappies, bottles, formula, baby wipes) after hearing specifically what Sherlock had already brought to Baker Street (assorted clothing - _most of it pink, John, pink!_ \- blankets, sheets, stuffies, and something called a diaper genie, which required explanation from John to Sherlock's chagrin - _is such a thing really necessary?_ )

Sherlock was indeed correct, and shortly a newborn sized car seat was delivered, along with a pink fleece.  The idea of a cab had been emphatically overruled by both Holmes men, and a car delivered two highly uncomfortable and uncertain adults, and a sleeping newborn, to Baker Street mid afternoon.  Sherlock had already notified Mrs. Hudson, who was waiting for them to help them settle in.  John had sent a longish update text off to Harry, whom he hadn't seen since she had unofficially declared a war of avoidance of Mary, hating something about her from the very outset.  The text was responded to with a smiley face and short text, **Yay, congrats,**   **I'll call you**!

The mere activity of getting home was taxing, John found, and in short order, he'd laid Riley down and closed his own eyes, _just for a minute, seriously, Sherlock_ , only to find that it was dark when he'd awakened by the cramping pain in his arm.  The flat was still and quiet at first blush, but then John could hear footsteps and rustling back in the bedroom.  He stood gingerly, adjusting the sling, and padded down the hallway on silent feet.

Sherlock was in sleep pants and tee shirt, arms full of sleeping baby.  A partially fed bottle was on the nightstand next to the lube, which John realised they'd have to do something about.  "You look content, there," he said quietly.

"She's _fascinating_."  He glanced at John, barely, then focused on her again.  "I gave her a bottle, and she got this sweet and adorable sleepy look about her, just like you do when you're feeling rather satisfied, John.  It's _uncanny_!"

The skeptical, disbelieving, slightly disappointed face John made in response to that had Sherlock questioning whether he would see that face on John anytime soon.  He kind of doubted it, judging by the current situation.

++

John made that face, that somewhat incredulous, "I can't believe you just did (or said) that" face again a few hours later when changing his own arm dressing awkwardly in the loo, inspecting the sutures carefully in the mirror and cleaning as gently as he could before finally deciding he was terribly ineffective with one arm and calling out for assistance.

John made that face again when, later that night, Sherlock actually got up to tend the baby but then refused to put her back in her bed after the bottle.  "If you train her to be held all the time, I guarantee you will regret it.  I. Guarantee. It."  And Sherlock decided that perhaps he should listen to John the first time they finally had enough energy and felt up to a romp in the sheets - and Riley refused to be put to sleep in her own room.  There were displeased faces on all three Baker Street residents that night.

John made that face again many times over the next days, weeks, months as they navigated the unique challenges of bringing a daughter to Baker Street.  Often followed up with a smile, as he knew they'd traversed crazy challenges and may be called upon to do it again.  There had been no news from Mary, David, or anything remotely connected to Moriarty.  The wound healed up well, the paperwork was filed, the ankle monitor removed.  The trail had gone cold, but Sherlock continued to monitor channels, rats, homeless networks, and his brother for news, inkling of news, or hints of anything resembling something of concern.  The more time passed, the more they knew it was just a matter of time, but the trio there on Baker Street was thriving, together.   Some days, John thought, that raising a daughter was a scary enough adventure all on its own.  Sherlock often caught him, and commented, when he was unable to keep the contented expression off his face. 

Riley herself, Sherlock determined eventually, also made that incredulous, disbelieving face from time to time.  That observation, when Sherlock spoke it aloud to John, did not go over well.  It turned out, he discovered, that presenting John with photographic proof of these yes-indeed-very-similar faces was also apparently a bit not good.

++ 

Epilogue

They sat on a blanket spread over the grass in the shade in the park, the sun bright across the field.  A warm breeze lifted Sherlock's curls as he stared off in the distance.  A two year old ran toward them, golden blonde ringlets and freckles across her nose, laughing and giggling in the sunshine.  There was a cup in her hand, and in it, flowers, blades of grass, and a pine cone.  She held her collection out to John.  "Daddy, look!"  He took the pine cone from the cup, admired it, handed the pine cone off to Sherlock, then took the cup from her.  As expected, as they'd done so many times in the past, he took the fluffy contents, green grass and yellow and blue flowers, tossed it all up in the air, allowing the grass and flowers to settle all over them.  The giggle that erupted was a great big belly laugh, guaranteed to delight all who heard it, and then, as expected, Sherlock growled good-naturedly and tossed his head violently, shaking a second confetti showering over them.

"Her love of flowers, she must get that from you, John."

"And the destructive tendencies from you, then."  John grinned at her chubby fingers working at the vegetation in her grasp.  "Give her a bit, you can teach her to take them all apart and study them."

"She already takes them apart.  And throws them."  She was reaching for the bigger petals, trying to replicate what John had done.

"Good thing she was too young to be a flowergirl then, can you imagine?"  John laughed, reaching to pluck a stray petal from Sherlock's brow, pausing just enough to brush a fingertip down an angled cheekbone.  The titanium ring on his finger, plain, just like the one Sherlock had chosen, still sparkled.  And he still loved it - loved it on his own hand, loved it on the hand he held often.  They'd exchanged them in a small gathering, just family and a few close friends, at Mycroft's large home.

"Stop teasing."

"I barely..."

"Then stop.  And stop breathing.  And you're leaning such..."

"You ready to go back?"

"Will she nap once we get home?"

John watched her as she took the pine cone out of Sherlock's pocket and threw that, too, thankfully into no one's eye.  "Maybe.  Best chances if we keep her awake until we get there."

The pushchair often put her to sleep, but they could find ways around that, and it was only a twenty minute walk back to Baker Street.  Sherlock's eyes were sparkling with anticipation.  "I'll make it worth your while, John, if you can get her to nap this afternoon."  His voice was low and full of promise, sending vibrations through John's chest.  And lower.

John stood, gathering the few items that needed to be packed away.  The blanket folded easily, tucked in the bottom of the pushchair, and Sherlock binned their trash, also standing.

John watched him and his fond expression as Sherlock stared at the vivacious toddler with fondness and appreciation.  He was very intrigued by the endless possibilities of an innocent young mind that was so impressionable and receptive.  Of course, when he'd taught her words John didn't care for ( _bloody hell_ being the first they'd argued about), they had more unpleasant discussions, but for the most part, John enjoyed watching them both together - it was the equivalent of the ultimate experiment was going on right under his nose.  He looked forward to putting her in her cot and having Sherlock all to himself again, though.

"You ready to go home, little one?"  He watched her laugh again and try to run away, knowing he would chase.  "Come Riley Watson, let's go home!"  She giggled at his use of her full name, and they became a chortling, grinning parade home, to Baker Street.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have decided to put the final chapter up, having smoothed out as many wrinkles as I could and have edited the stuffing out of this chapter. I hope you enjoy it! 
> 
> For those who have encouraged this story and offered suggestions along the way, I thank you very much!
> 
> Please let me know nicely if I missed something glaring.

**Author's Note:**

> So I started this before Christmas (before TAB) thinking it was going to be Christmas Fluff and then it has expanded its boundaries to be something far beyond Christmas. It just sort of ... happened that this piece could be series compatible and incorporates TAB compliant details.


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